“My life cannot then be reproduced by a narrative: in as much as it has been actually lived, it lies without the scope of my present concrete thought and can only be recaptured as particles irradiated by flashes of memory. Nor is my life in the notes jotted down day by day and making up my diary; when I re-read them they have for the most part lost their meaning, and I do not recognize myself in them. …My life, in so far as already lived, is not then an inalterable deposit or a finished whole. To give one’s life is neither to part with one’s self nor to do away with one’s self, it is to respond to a certain call. Death can then be life, in the supreme sense.”

Gabriel Marcel,
The Mystery Of Being