Quotes About Dying

If it was the Border Patrol's job to apprehend lawbreakers, it was equally their duty to save the lost and the dying.

She loves me?" Vincent nodded, then grinned. "Well? What are you waiting for? Get in your car and get to the airport. Follow her," he said. "You have to go explain the truth. Tell her everything. She loves you, Bastien. You need to tell her you aren't dying, and that she will never have to watch you die a long lingering death.

Not so much of dying, if—I'm afraid of annihilation. Of not being.

I want writers to write books as actions. I want writers to write books that can make a difference in how, and even why, people live. I want writers to write books that are worth being jailed for, worth fighting for, and should it come to that in this country, worth dying for.

They passed the hall, that echoes still, Pass as lightly as you will. The brands were flat, the brands were dying, Amid their own white ashes lying; But when the lady passed, there came A tongue of light, a fit of flame; And Christabel saw the lady's eye, And nothing else saw she thereby

Who better to confess to than a dying woman?

The free countries are curiously lethargic about their freedom. The credit of revolution is strong in Western Europe, while capitalism, especially in its hated American form, is held to be dying. Many exult over its approaching death. Tired of old evils, they long for the new thing and will not be happy until they've had it. Baudelaire writes, in one of his journals, that life is a hospital in which patient believes that he will recover if he is moved to another bed.

Because in the school of the Spirit man learns wisdom through humility, knowledge by forgetting, how to speak by silence, how to live by dying.

Is boredom anything less than the sense of one's faculties slowly dying?

Now he preferred his newspapers, with their long columns of print, each letter painstakingly laid out by hand to create something that would lose its relevance almost as soon as it appeared on the newsstands, the news within already old and dying by the time it was read, quickly overtaken by events in the world beyond.

Footsteps drew nearer, and with them the stink of Mors, potent even amid the gun smoke, the blood, and the smell of dying. She was its quintessence, the crux of it made manifest. It was in her name. She was Death itself.

Mortality shadowed him like a falcon mantling its wings over dying prey.

Even in the washed out light of that place, the tears in Micky's eyes glittered like the last sparks of a dying star.

This pain, this dying, this is just normal. This is how life is. In fact, I realize, there never was an earthquake. Life is just this way, broken, and I am crazy for dreaming of something else.

The question of whether it's God's green earth is not at center stage, except in the sense that if so, one is reminded with some regularity that He may be dying.

It is depressing to hear the unfortunate or dying man jest.

Yes! comfortable, warm reader. Men do not fear death, they fear the pain of dying.

I for one had come to that point of suffering at which I did not really care if only I could die without much pain. They talk of the heroism of the dying—they little know—it would be so easy to die, a dose of morphia, a friendly crevasse, and blissful sleep. The trouble is to go on....

I for one, had come to that point of suffering at which I did not really care if only I could die without much pain. They talk of the heroism of the dying - the little they know - it would be so easy to die, a dose of morphia, a friendly crevasse, and blissful sleep. The trouble is to go on...

Men do not fear death, they fear the pain of dying.

It's inspirational to see someone who is dying smile.

Many ALS patients end up fading away quietly and dying. For me, this was not OK. I did not want to fade away quietly.

The dying: he sensed them all around him. Through the stink of mud and smoke rolled the smell of blood, heavy and sweetly enticing. His thirst rose, independent of his horror. Thirst and revulsion. The powerful tang of death and blood congealed in the back of his throat.

Karl stood up slowly. He was caked with filth, but the dirt was nothing to him. He felt divorced from the squalor. He and Kristian were spectres glimpsed only by the dying.