i was talking to a moth
the other evening
he was trying to break into
an electric light bulb
and fry himself on the wires

why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him
because it is the conventional
thing for moths or why
if that had been an uncovered
candle instead of an electric
light bulb you would
now be a small unsightly cinder
have you no sense

plenty of it he answered
but at times we get tired
of using it
we get bored with the routine
and crave beauty
and excitement
fire is beautiful
and we know that if we get
too close it will kill us
but what does that matter
it is better to be happy
for a moment
and be burned up with beauty
than to live a long time
and be bored all the while
so we wad all our life up
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll
that is what life is for
it is better to be a part of beauty
for one instant and then cease to
exist than to exist forever
and never be a part of beauty
our attitude toward life
is come easy go easy
we are like human beings
used to be before they became
too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before i could argue him
out of his philosophy
he went and immolated himself
on a patent cigar lighter
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
the longevity
but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself

archy (the cockroach)

~Don Marquis “The Lesson of the Moth”

One night a moth flew into the candle, was caught, burned dry, and held. I must have been staring at the candle, or maybe I looked up when a shadow crossed my page; at any rate, I saw it all…

Her moving wings ignited like tissue paper…

And then this moth essence, this spectacular skeleton, began to act as a wick. She kept burning. The wax rose in the moth’s body from her soaking abdomen to her thorax to the jagged hole where her head should be, and widened into flame, a saffron-yellow flame that robed her to the ground like any immolating monk. That candle had two wicks, two flames of identical height, side by side. The moth’s head was fire. She burned for two hours, until I blew her out.
~Annie Dillard from “The Death of the Moth” from Holy the Firm

The struggle was over.

The insignificant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange.

The moth having righted himself now lay most decently and uncomplainingly composed. O yes, he seemed to say, death is stronger than I am.
~Virginia Woolf from “The Death of a Moth”

I too would take half the happiness and twice the longevity over one moment of ecstasy.

But I admire the blind passion of a tiny creature who will beat itself senseless on a light bulb, or fly into a flame to become cinders, or struggle so hard to live upright rather than upside down, that it dies in the struggle.

Why are famous poets and essayists fascinated by the tiny deaths they witness on their front porches, in their kitchens or at their writing desk?

Death is never tiny at all.
Nevertheless, death is ceasing to be,
after a unique and intentional creation,
whether a moth, a mother, or ourselves.

We live today. Look for a moment of beauty to enjoy.
Let’s be sensible about what we want so badly.
As one tiny part of matter, we matter.
And when we die, it is never a tiny death.

Lyrics:
A day may come that asks of us all we have to give:
a day we never would have sought and yet we have to live.
If it should be our destiny to live in such a day,
let our faith and love be worthy of the ones who showed the way.
The ones we now call heroes
The ones we say their memory will not die –
they were no different in their day than you or I.
They were no different in their day. than you or I.
~Grahame Davies