Humans hate being mentally strong and physically weak. The fact that we get to take this planet down with us when we go brings us no joy whatsoever. Instead we admire athletes and the physically violent, and we loathe intellectuals. A bunch of nerds build a rocket to the fucking moon, and who do they send? A blond man named Armstrong, who can't even say the line right when he lands.
It's a weird curse, when you think about it. We're built for thought, and civilization, more than any other creature we've found. And all we really want to be is killers. [27-29]
I just finished Beat the Reaper by Josh Bazell. It's a brisk, crackin' read about a former killer for the mob who is discovered as a doctor in witness protection.
Elisabeth Kübler-Ross at one point said that our comprehension of death passes through five distinct stages—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.*
* I say "at one point" because this progression is what we think about when we think about Kübler-Ross. But what we avoid thinking about when we think about Kübler-Ross is how she later changed her mind and decided we'll all be reincarnated. I wish I was shitting you. 
Its climax is wicked audacious. I stood and applauded on the inside.
Ah, youth. It's like heroin you've smoked instead of snorted. Gone so fast you can't believe you still have to pay for it. 
I am eager to dive into its sequel, Wild Thing.
Jew-hating may be a primordial cracker urge, but loneliness goes back to the amoeba.