I find myself thinking that we all die. And better to die with your hammer in your hand than to try to hide from it.
There's an awful beauty in the deaths of the shuttle astronauts. Of people like Daniel Pearl, who Tempest also mentions. Of everyone who died holding a pass or climbing a mountain. There's a beauty in Marie Curie dying of radiation sickness, even.
Maybe it's my Viking ancestors speaking through me--but when I look my death in the face, I want to see John Henry, Marie Curie, Daniel Pearl. Not Ernest Hemingway and not Howard Hughes.
I'd still like it to be a good sixty years in the future, though. :-)