They were headline names, and when accompanied by just one profound word, "died," nothing more needed to be explained. The news could startle or even shock when it was unexpected, arouse a sympathetic sigh when it seemed to be in the natural order of things, shake loose a memory.

It may have come to us over the Internet or from the television, or it may have been in the newspaper that morning. Or perhaps the news reached us in the truly old-fashioned way: by word of mouth, which we duly passed along, links in a social chain as old as humankind, prefacing it with a "Did you hear?"

There may have been time for reflection later, in the evening, as the dust of the day settled and the mind cleared. Maybe talking heads were paying tribute on cable news, their voices overlapping a film-clip montage. Maybe the disembodied voice of the deceased sounded from the radio. Then it was to bed, to ready ourselves for another day, when the thrust, again, would be forward, not back.

December, the evening of the year, is a time to pause, too. We wind down, reflect and take stock before the calendar turns. And we remember those who were here a year ago but who will not be tomorrow, when we, the survivors, start anew.

Future generations may scratch their heads at many of the names we so easily recognize today, but it's safe to say that Nelson Mandela's will draw no such blanks. The father of his country, he offered another persuasive exhibit for the Great Man theory of history.

In death he followed others whose footsteps across the world stage may have been smaller, but nevertheless resounded in their day. Margaret Thatcher's flinty brand of British conservatism acquired a namesake "ism" all its own. No friend of the French or American governments, Vo Nguyen Giap nevertheless earned their respect with a tenacious if brutal generalship that threw off in succession the grip of colonialism and the might of a superpower. Half a world away, Hugo Chávez would lead with his strongman swagger no more, to the end a defiant nemesis to the United States but an up-by-his-bootstraps hero to Venezuela's poor.

American politics may have been in ferment, but even ideological opposites could achieve rare unanimity in honoring the memories of Thomas S. Foley, a courtly exponent of bipartisanship in his years as speaker of the House; Lindy Boggs, who forged a long and effective career on Capitol Hill from the wreckage of her husband's — and predecessor's — fatal airplane crash; William H. Gray III, the Baptist minister who for a time was the highest-ranking black lawmaker in the country, as House majority whip; Frank R. Lautenberg, the self-made businessman turned liberal stalwart in the Senate and its last veteran of World War II; and Edward I. Koch, New York's inimitable, irrepressible Hizzoner, who was more than a match for his beloved, boisterous city.

In the overlapping worlds of art and entertainment the death toll registered somehow on a more personal level, even if those we recalled were never closer than a screen or a stage and always pretending to be other people; or painters, musicians and writers who, in expressing themselves to the world, never had you or me specifically in mind. We felt we knew them nevertheless.

We said goodbye to Peter O'Toole and Julie Harris, royalty of the acting trade, and to James Gandolfini, whose sudden death at 51 was met with something like universal dismay. The blackout finale of "The Sopranos" was nothing compared to this.

Those of us with longer memories, or a fondness for Turner Classic Movies, noted the passing of Joan Fontaine, Esther Williams and Deanna Durbin, stars in a more distant Hollywood firmament. And fans of those lush, literate Merchant Ivory films mourned the death of the screenwriter Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, whose words, they knew, were the essential bridge between producer and director, the silent hyphen in the trademark name.