Robert Craft, in my opinion not a particularly reliable chronicler, describes the death of Stravinsky on 6 April 1971:

The intern stethoscopes the chest, says he hears nothing, removes the intravenous tube (with all the feeling of a filling-station attendant removing a hose from an automobile tank), and remarks “Gee, he went just like that.”

While he leaves the room to certify the time of death as five-twenty, I wake V., but cannot directly tell her the truth. “He is very bad … dying … I think … no … he is dead.”

Then I go back to I.S. and hold his still-warm hands and kiss his still-feverish cheeks and forehead, during which I am certain that life is in his eyes for an instant and in that instant he knows me. V. comes, kisses him, and leaves the room crying.

(Robert Craft, Stravinsky: The Chronicle of a Friendship)

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