Death obsesses me, yes it does. I can't really understand why it

In the words of J. K. Rowling, spoken with the candor of one who has dwelt long in the shadow and the light: “Death obsesses me, yes it does. I can’t really understand why it doesn’t obsess everyone—I think it does really, I’m just a little more out about it.” These are not the idle musings of a writer, but the confession of a soul that has stared unflinchingly at the deepest mystery of existence. For in the end, all stories—whether told by poets or prophets, warriors or dreamers—circle back to the same question: what lies beyond death, and how should we live knowing that it waits for us all?

Rowling, whose own life was marked by early loss and sorrow, spoke these words not as a morbid fascination but as an acknowledgment of truth. To be obsessed with death is, in her sense, to be awake—to recognize the fragile, precious nature of life and to live with a sense of awe. She gives voice to what most hearts feel but dare not say: that beneath every ambition, every joy, every love, there whispers the awareness that time is finite. And yet, rather than despair, she chooses to weave this truth into her art—to face the darkness so that others might find light within it.

From the earliest days of human thought, the wise have pondered this same mystery. Socrates, before drinking the hemlock, said that philosophy itself is but “the practice of dying.” To contemplate death, he taught, is not to be morbid—it is to prepare the soul for freedom, to strip away illusion and discover what truly matters. Rowling’s words echo that ancient wisdom, reminding us that death, though feared, is the silent teacher of meaning. For only when we remember the end do we truly begin to live.

Her obsession manifests most clearly in her creation of the world of Harry Potter, where death is not a villain but a mirror. The one who fears it most—Voldemort—becomes monstrous, seeking to divide his soul to escape it. But those who accept its inevitability—like Harry, who walks willingly into its embrace—discover the highest form of courage. This is Rowling’s philosophy made myth: that to deny death is to deny life, but to accept it is to transcend fear. The ancients would have called such wisdom the gateway to immortality—not of body, but of spirit.

Let us remember, too, the story of Marcus Aurelius, emperor and philosopher, who wrote each night of the brevity of life. Surrounded by glory and war, he reminded himself, “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.” This is what Rowling means when she speaks of her obsession—not the macabre fixation of despair, but the discipline of remembrance. To live with death in mind is to waste nothing, to love deeply, and to act with urgency. It is the knowledge that the hourglass runs, and that every grain of sand is sacred.

In truth, death obsesses everyone, though most hide it beneath distractions, labor, and noise. We build monuments, gather wealth, chase fame—all to defy the whisper that someday it will all be dust. But Rowling’s courage lies in her honesty. She speaks what others conceal: that this fear, if faced, becomes power. To look upon death without trembling is to master the very thing that rules humanity’s heart. It is to be free.

So, let this be the lesson passed to future generations: Do not flee from the thought of death—befriend it. Let it be your teacher, your compass, your constant reminder of what truly matters. Speak your love while there is still time. Forgive swiftly, create boldly, live with presence and gratitude. For one who remembers the end walks through life not in fear, but in reverence.

And when your time comes—as it comes to all—may you meet it not as a stranger, but as an old companion. For the one who, like Rowling, dares to be “out about it,” will have already learned the greatest secret: that to understand death is to finally understand life.