No one owns life, but anyone who can pick up a frying pan owns

The words of William S. Burroughs, “No one owns life, but anyone who can pick up a frying pan owns death,” resound like an oracle’s whisper through the ages. Life, the quote tells us, is not a possession—it flows freely, indifferent to our grasping hands. Yet death, the inevitable shadow cast by existence, may be summoned, wielded, or inflicted. The frying pan, humble and domestic, becomes a symbol of power—the power to destroy, even unintentionally, that which cannot be owned. Thus, Burroughs’ words are both ironic and tragic: while none may command the mystery of life, even the simplest among us holds the capacity to end it.

In ancient wisdom, life was often viewed as a sacred flame lent to mortals by the gods. None could claim it as their own; it was entrusted, not possessed. To live was to honor that gift. Yet in the mortal hand also lies the means to extinguish it. The frying pan, plain and commonplace, stands for all tools that can be turned from creation to destruction. In the kitchen, it gives sustenance; in anger, it can kill. Thus, Burroughs speaks not merely of physical death but of the terrible ease with which the divine spark may be shattered by human folly.

Consider the tale of Clytemnestra, queen of Mycenae, who took up the blade to slay her husband Agamemnon upon his return from Troy. She, who once shared his bed and his life, turned the instruments of home into weapons of vengeance. She did not own life, nor could she grant it—but she wielded death as a queen might wield a scepter. In her act, we see Burroughs’ truth: life is sacred and fragile, yet death is always within reach. To hold power over life’s end does not make one divine—it exposes how frail our moral balance truly is.

This quote, though modern, carries the same gravity as the ancient admonitions of the Stoics and the prophets. It reminds us that while we cannot master the essence of living, we can choose how we treat the life around us. To “own death” is not merely to kill—it is to hold the power of consequence, to be aware that one’s choices can harm or heal, ruin or redeem. Every harsh word, every cruel act, is a small invocation of death. Every kindness, every gesture of mercy, is an act of defiance against it.

Yet there is another meaning—more subtle and internal. The frying pan, symbol of the mundane, tells us that even the ordinary holds power. The lowly, the overlooked, the common person, may possess the ability to change destiny, for good or ill. Life cannot be contained, bought, or owned by kings or emperors, but death bows to no hierarchy. In this sense, Burroughs speaks not only of mortality but of equality. In the face of death, all are sovereign.

Let us then heed the wisdom in his irony. To “own death” is not to glory in violence or despair but to recognize responsibility. Every being that breathes shares the same fragile light, and every hand that acts upon the world shapes the boundary between life and its end. The true sage, therefore, is not he who fears death, but he who honors life by restraining the hand that could destroy it.

Remember this, children of time: though no one owns life, you are its guardian while it flows through you. Your breath, your words, your choices—these are the tools of creation. Do not wield them like a frying pan in wrath; wield them as the potter does the clay—with reverence. For life is not yours to keep, but it is yours to protect.

Lesson and Practice:
Let each dawn remind you that life is on loan. When anger rises, pause and feel the weight of your hand before you act. When despair tempts you toward destruction, remember that power without compassion is hollow. Create, feed, nurture—these are the sacred uses of your strength. In doing so, you will not “own death,” but you will honor life, and in that honoring lies the truest form of wisdom.