No matter how ugly the manner in which a man dies, it’s only the presence of a suffering human soul that is horrifying, once gone, what is left is only an object.

I regarded him gently over my own bowl of stew. He was very large, solid, and beautifully formed. And if he was a bit battered by circumstance, that merely added to his charm.

"You're a very hard person to kill, I think," I said. "That's a great comfort to me.

Futility. Uselessness. Bloody entrophy. Death matters, at least sometimes.

I know what it felt . . . like when I . . . thought you were dead, and-" A small gasp for breath, and her eyes locked on his. "And I wouldn't do that to you." Her bosom fell and her eyes closed.
It was a long moment before he could speak.
"Thank ye, Sassenach," he whispered, and held her small, cold hand between his own and watched her breathe until the moon rose.

Suffering is not good for the soul, unless it teaches you to stop suffering

Its way of suffering is the witness which a soul bares to itself.