I do not believe that any man fears to be dead, but only the

In the immortal words of Francis Bacon, philosopher of the dawn of modern thought, we are reminded of one of the deepest truths of human nature: “I do not believe that any man fears to be dead, but only the stroke of death.” This saying, though born in an age of reason, carries the cadence of ancient wisdom. It is not the state of death that terrifies the heart, but the passage into it—the moment when flesh, breath, and soul part company. The darkness beyond holds less terror than the trembling before it. What we truly fear is not being dead, but dying.

To Francis Bacon, the father of empirical wisdom, this reflection was not mere philosophy but an observation of the human condition. He saw that men faced battlefields, plagues, and perils with courage, yet quailed when the shadow of the stroke of death drew near. Death itself, he reasoned, is nothing—merely a return to silence, a dissolving of the senses. But the stroke, that instant of surrender, that unknown bridge between being and nothingness, awakens the primal dread that lives in all creatures. For death has no voice, yet its approach is thunderous in the imagination.

Think of the noble Socrates, condemned to drink the hemlock. As the cup was placed before him, his friends wept and trembled, but he remained calm. He spoke of the soul’s journey, of freedom from the body’s prison. Yet even he, wise as he was, felt the chill of that final moment—the moment when thought would cease to command the tongue. His serenity was not the absence of fear, but the mastery of it. He understood, as Bacon did, that death itself is not the enemy—it is the anticipation, the stroke, that tests the soul’s courage.

Throughout history, the warriors and martyrs of humankind have proved this truth. The soldier who charges into battle does not fear being dead, for he does not yet imagine it. What grips his heart is the thought of the arrow’s flight, the sword’s descent, the instant of pain before release. And when the blow comes, it is gone in less than a breath—swift as lightning, and then silence. Even those who have walked through mortal sickness tell of this revelation: that once the threshold is crossed, peace, not terror, awaits. It is not death, but the path to it, that wrings the heart.

There is a story from the plague years of England—Bacon’s own time—of a physician who tended the sick until the pestilence claimed him. As he lay dying, his apprentice asked if he feared the end. The man replied, “No, I feared the moment it would take me. But now that I am taken, I find no fear left.” And with that, he passed. This simple account embodies Bacon’s wisdom: the fear of death is an illusion created by life’s fierce attachment to itself. Once the stroke has fallen, the fear dissolves with the breath that carried it.

So let us learn from this ancient insight, that fear is a shadow cast by the living, not the dead. The wise do not flee from death; they prepare their hearts to meet it with calm and dignity. To understand that one fears the stroke and not death itself is to recognize the power of the mind over the body. When you make peace with the inevitable, you rob fear of its sting. For death is the most natural of all things—it is the completion of the circle, the returning of the soul to the vastness from which it came.

And thus, dear listener, the lesson is this: do not fear the end, but learn to live so well that the end finds you unafraid. Practice serenity in small endings—each day, each loss, each change. They are rehearsals for that final release. Let courage dwell not in the denial of fear, but in the quiet acceptance of truth. When the stroke of death comes, let it find you as it found the sages of old—upright in spirit, your heart already at peace. For death is not the destroyer of life, but its fulfillment; and he who greets it without trembling has already conquered it.