In our present culture in America we don’t discuss death. It is taboo. It is not something that is welcome in polite conversation.
George Costanza had no fear:
Ben: No, I feel great for 85.
George: You know, the average life span for an American male is like, 72. You’re really… kinda pushing the envelope there.
Ben: I’m not afraid of dying. I never think about it.
George: You don’t? Boy, I think about it a lot. I think about it at my age. Imagine how much I’ll be thinking about it at your age. All I’ll do is keep thinking about it until it drives me insane…
Ben: I’m grateful for every moment I have.
George: Grateful? How can you be grateful when you’re so close to the end? When you know that any second… Poof! Bamm-o! It can all be over. I mean you’re not stupid, you can read the handwriting on the wall. It’s a matter of simple arithmetic, for Gods sake.
Ben: I guess I just don’t care.
George: What are you talking about? How can you sit there and look me in the eye and tell that me you’re not worried?! Don’t you have any sense?!! Don’t you have a brain!? Are you so completely senile that you don’t know what you’re talking about anymore?! [Ben gets up] Wait a second, where are you going?
Ben: Life’s too short to waste on you.
George: Wait a minute, please.
Ben: Get out of my way.
George: But Mr. Cantwell, you… You owe me for the soup.
Old Georgie boy knew how to broach the subject with exquisite senisitivity and grace, didn’t he?
We don’t like the topic of death and we despise any mention of hell.