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But i am greedy for life. i do too much of everything all the time. suddenly one day my heart will fail. the iron crab will get me as it got my father. but i am not afraid of the crab. at least i shall have died from an honourable disease. perhaps they will put on my tombstone. 'this man died from living too much'.
-Ian Fleming
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But I Am Greedy For Life. I

Ian Fleming
But i am greedy for life. i do too much of everything all the time. suddenly one day my heart will fail. the iron crab will get me as it got my father. but i am not afraid of the crab. at least i shall have died from an honourable disease. perhaps they will put on my tombstone. 'this man died from living too much'.
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Father Tombstone Heart

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I have always smoked and drunk and loved too much. in fact i have lived not too long but too much. one day the iron crab will get me. then i shall have died of living too much.
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And when the sun rises we are afraid it might not remain when the sun sets we are afraid it might not rise in the morning when our stomachs are full we are afraid of indigestion when our stomachs are empty we are afraid we may never eat again when we are loved we are afraid love will vanish when we are alone we are afraid love will never return and when we speak we are afraid our words will not be heard nor welcomed but when we are silent we are still afraid so it is better to speak remembering we were never meant to survive
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Right now, the technological world plus god or spirituality is evolving. i think america has become a little bit too corrupt, government's a little too corrupt, too greedy. many corporations are too greedy. the labor unions are too greedy. that effects charities and religious organizations. i just think it's greed. that's why, in 1985, i had to figure out how to give before i received. the more i focus on giving, for less and less, the more and more i make.
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When the sun shouts and people abound one thinks there were the ages of stone and the age of bronze and the iron age; iron the unstable metal; steel made of iron, unstable as his mother; the tow-ered-up cities will be stains of rust on mounds of plaster. roots will not pierce the heaps for a time, kind rains will cure them, then nothing will remain of the iron age and all these people but a thigh-bone or so, a poem stuck in the world's thought, splinters of glass in the rubbish dumps, a concrete dam far off in the mountain.
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