In the Galleria Borghese today, we saw several paintings by Raphael, one of the titans of the Italian Renaissance — who died on or near his thirty-seventh birthday.
At the base of the Spanish Steps, we saw the house in which the English poet John Keats died, at the age of twenty-five.
So much talent. So much unfulfilled potential.
It’s not an argument for life after death, of course. But it’s certainly a reason why we might hope that death isn’t the end.
Posted from Rome, Italy.