"Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?"

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I am apt to think, if we knew what it was to be an angel for one hour, we should return to this world, though it were to sit on the brightest throne in it, with vastly more loathing and reluctance than we would now descend into a loathsome dungeon or sepulchre.

— George Berkeley