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The simple act of living, how precious it was!  If I got out of this, I would know it forever.  I would be grateful for every breath I breathed, every meal I ate, every night I felt the cool kiss of sheets, the peace of a bed behind a closed, a locked, door.  Why had I never known this before?  Why had my parents, my lost religion, never taught it to me?  Anyway, I knew now.  I had found it out for myself.  Love of life is born of the awareness of death, of the dread of it.  Nothing makes one really grateful for life except the black wings of danger.

 - Ian Fleming's Vivienne Michel