Death is such a strange thing. One minute you're here and then

“Death is such a strange thing. One minute you're here and then just gone. You'd think there would be an anteroom, a place where you could be visited before you go.” — thus spoke John Banville, the Irish novelist whose words shimmer between beauty and melancholy, between what is seen and what is forever lost. In this reflection lies a truth that has haunted humankind since the dawn of consciousness: that death, for all its inevitability, remains incomprehensible in its suddenness. Banville’s thought, gentle and profound, speaks to the heart’s yearning for transition — for a threshold between life and the void, a sacred space in which goodbyes may be spoken, forgiveness offered, and the spirit prepared for its final departure.

In these words, Banville reveals not fear, but bewilderment. He does not curse death as cruel, but marvels at its abruptness. How strange it is, he says, that we who are filled with memories, dreams, and desires can vanish in an instant, leaving behind only silence. The idea of an “anteroom” — a waiting place before death — is a deeply human wish. It is the hope that there might be a bridge between being and nothingness, a space to reconcile the unfinished, to touch once more those we love, and to make peace with what was left undone. It is not the fear of death itself that troubles him, but the lack of ceremony, the lack of time to prepare the soul for its great crossing.

The origin of Banville’s thought lies in his lifelong meditation on mortality, beauty, and memory. In his novels — especially The Sea — he portrays death not as an enemy, but as an unfathomable mystery that shadows every joy and every act of creation. For Banville, the world is drenched in impermanence. The artist, the lover, and the thinker all live with the knowledge that life is a momentary gift, fragile and vanishing. His quote reflects this awareness: that there is no warning bell for death, no sacred pause between existence and oblivion. One moment, laughter fills the air; the next, it is swallowed by silence.

The ancients, too, understood this strangeness. The Greeks imagined the River Styx, the boundary between the living and the dead, where the soul would be ferried by Charon into the underworld. The Egyptians believed in a vast and ordered passage through the afterlife, filled with tests and judgments before the heart could rest. Even in these myths, we find Banville’s yearning — the belief that death should not come like a thief in the night, but as a solemn transition, a journey through an anteroom of the soul. Yet modern life, with its noise and haste, has stripped death of its ritual. We die as we live — abruptly, distracted, unprepared. Banville’s words remind us of what we have lost: the art of dying well.

Consider the final hours of Socrates, the wise philosopher of Athens. When sentenced to death, he did not flee or despair, but calmly drank the poison while discussing the immortality of the soul. He treated his death as an act of philosophy, a final lesson to his disciples. In that prison cell, surrounded by friends, he found his own anteroom — a space of reflection, of peace, of meaning. It is this dignity of death that Banville longs for: not immortality, but awareness; not escape, but the chance to stand at the threshold with open eyes and a serene heart.

There is also tenderness in Banville’s longing — the wish that the living could visit the dying in that in-between place. He imagines a room of farewell, where the soul lingers for a moment before the veil falls completely. This yearning springs from love, for love refuses to accept separation without parting words. How many hearts have broken for want of one more hour, one more touch, one more chance to say, “I forgive you,” or “I love you still”? Banville gives voice to this universal ache — the human desire for connection, even as the light fades.

And so, my child, let this be the lesson: if there is no anteroom in death, then let us build one in life. Do not wait for the threshold to speak your heart, to mend what is broken, to cherish what is fleeting. Live as though every conversation could be the last — not in fear, but in reverence. Let your words be kind, your silences peaceful, your days filled with meaning. For death will always be sudden, but life need not be careless. The anteroom Banville imagined can exist here, in every act of love, in every moment of awareness, in every farewell offered before the final one.

As John Banville reminds us, death is strange, and life no less so. We walk between the two, uncertain and unprepared. But if we learn to live consciously — to honor each day as a preparation for departure — then death need not come as an intruder. It will come as a guest, expected and accepted. And though there may be no anteroom to visit before we go, there will be peace enough in knowing that we have lived fully, loved deeply, and left nothing unsaid.