Quotes About Afterlife

The hellequin," she said icily, "are the dead who have no souls. The dead who were so wicked in life that the devil loves them too much to punish them in hell and so he gives them his horses and releases them on the living.

all the Danish leaders, had carved into our shield wall with his great war ax, I had faced him, beaten him, and sent him to join the einherjar, that army of the dead who feast and swive in Odin's corpse hall. What

Who summons the dead man?" she asked. "A fresh corpse," Æthelwold said. "A fresh corpse?" I asked. "Someone must be sent to the world of the dead," he explained, as though it were obvious, "to find Bjorn and bring him back." "So they kill someone?" Gisela asked. "How else can they send a messenger to the dead?" Æthelwold asked pugnaciously.

The night is the domain of the dead, and the living fear it...

It is not rational arguments but emotions that cause belief in a future life.

untroubled by the thought of death because he fears himself not really separate from those who will come after him. It is in such profound instinctive union with the stream of life the greatest joy is to be found.

For either death is a dreamless sleep—which is plainly good—or the soul migrates to another world.

It is one of the sternest judgments confronting a human being after death that insofar as he is himself evil, he can see only what resembles himself because he can reproduce in his own being only the physiognomy of other evil people.

'What do you really think happens after you die?' That's the question that everyone, everyone, everyone asks. And I'm so sick of it. But my true answer is, I don't know. And there's no way I'm going to find out 'til it happens.

You better be very convinced, very sure, before you pull your plug or someone else's plug, that you know what's on the other side of the gravestone.

By aiming for paradise, we lose sight of earth. Hope of a beyond and aspiration to an afterlife engender a sense of futility in the present. If the prospect of getting taken up to paradise generates joy, it is the mindless joy of a baby picked up from his crib.

There's nothing simple when you're in this 'Good Place.'

Men feared even the shade of Alexander, lest they encounter him again beneath the earth, for surely in that world, too, none would surpass him.

In Heaven you forget everything. In Hell they make you remember.

Megan's right about my being a sinner. But she's wrong about hell. You don't have to wait until you're dead to get there.

There is no eternal blessedness in the world to come because there is no world to come.

I have had too much personal evidence of the presence of the dead, too many clear hints of a glorious after-life, to ignore. I would not make these up to comfort myself but they are an inexpressible consolation in the face of death. Would I deny them in the face of the sneers and jeers of others? If I did, I would be untrue to myself and my own experiences. I respect the unbelief of others. They should respect my faith.

Alexander of Whitby taught that the universe is like a tapestry only parts of which are visible to us at a time. After we are dead, we will see the whole and then it will be clear to us how the different parts relate to each other.

You don't seem to associate them with the problems of population increase. They're just babies! And you've come to believe in them again. They're a lot more tangible than the afterlife, which, of course, you haven't believed in in ages. At least not for yourself. The afterlife now belongs to plastics and poisons

Death is but a doorway to another path.

Nuestra época no cree en la vida más allá de la muerte por miedo a lo desconocido, por miedo a la existencia de una realidad que se hurte a su ciencia y a su técnica; y también porque, no creyendo en otra vida,se puede vivir esta como lo hacen los animales

Aquello está sobre las brasas de la tierra, en la mera boca del infierno. Con decirle que muchos de los que allí se mueren al llegar al infierno regresan por su cobija.

The Changing Light at Sandover, an over five-hundred-page epic poem by Pulitzer prize-winning poet, James Merrill (3 March, 1926–6 February, 1995) was inspired by what he called his "twenty-year adventure around the Ouija board," during which he spoke to dead friends and a wide assortment of spirits.

Geniul" este o invenÅ£ie terapeutic? ce ne împiedic? s? murim de egalitate într-o lume f?r? via?? de apoi.