Quotes About Dead

Render me the texture of flesh. Pick me what it is, in the timbre of the voice, that marks out the living from the dead.

Vows to the living may be set aside, with their permission. But the dead do not negotiate.

I see that both the living and the dead commute, riding their familiar trains. I am not, as you will have gathered, a person who needs false excitement, or simulated innovation. I am willing, though, to tear up the timetable and take some new routes; and I know I shall find, at some unlikely terminus, a hand that is meant to rest in mine.

He doesn't believe the dead need our prayers, nor can they use them. But anyone who know the Bible as he does, knows that our God is a capricious God, and there's no harm in hedging your bets.

One fine day, in the middle of the night, two dead boys got up to fight. Back to back they faced each other. They pulled out their swords and shot one another. One deaf cop, on the beat heard the noise, and came and shot the two dead boys.

I may be rotten, but my one virtue is that I'm not a killer. I wanted to frighten you, but I never wanted you dead. I never wanted anyone dead.

If you don't, the spirits of the newly dead can get in your body through your mouth and then they can possess you.

Alive or dead, I never cared about him. I only cared for you. If you're sorrowful that he's gone, then I am sorry for that. If you wish he were returned to life so you could kill him again, I recognize that feeling. But perhaps you dispensed justice and are only troubled that justice can be cruel.

First, I look at history the way I look at evolution. Some things die out for a good reason, and should be left dead. I put dictatorships and velociraptors in the same category: leave them in the past, where they can serve as frightening object lessons for the present.

I should rather labor as another's serf, in the home of a man without fortune, one whose livelihood was meager, than rule over all the departed dead.

Glory is the sunshine of the dead

Wife," said the little tailor, "it's ill counting on dead men's shoes.

brutally, like men who think they have to deal with a swindler or a madman — it depends on their nature. I have been buried under the dead; but now I am buried under the living, under papers, under facts, under the whole of society, which wants to shove me underground again!

Our American professors like their literature clear and cold and pure and very dead.

The living is a passing traveler; The dead, a man come home.

Death was the hot bath you promised yourself while you endured small talk and uncomfortable shoes. You could stop pretending to have a good time when you were dead.

And don't forget last year's electrodes, stuck to my leg, the centuries of science reviving one blue foot. Years from now I'll be walking around on plastic legs with a battery-powered heart and silicon eyes, eating imported apricots and flash-frozen chicken hormones. I'll think, again: In an Ice Age cave I'd be dead.

There are stories about winter ghosts found tangled like lice in their lovers' hair. Dead people have no hair themselves, which is how they can be recognized in winter. But in summer, the living and dead may pass each other on the street, and no one knows the difference.

It's difficult to do a genre film well, and it doesn't matter if you're talking vampire movies or 'Dawn of the Dead' or 'The Thing' or 'Escape From New York.' Those kind of movies, they understand what the old-school B-movie is supposed to be, they get the throwback of it.

When we learned to play in bands, what we were covering was equal part the Velvet Underground and the Grateful Dead. That would defy the logic that somehow these things don't fit in the same musical well.

An independent, strong, thriving and peaceful State of Israel is the vengeance of the dead.

But a big or little rascal? I don't have a high enough opinion of historical research to lose my time over a dead man whose hand, if he were alive, I would not deign to touch. What do I know about him? You couldn't dream of a better life than his: but did he live it? If only his letters weren't so formal. . . . Ah

But on a moment's reflection, it didn't seem that natural at all. Mere hours ago I was as good as dead in Deborah's eyes, lower than pond scum—and for the very same reason that she now found my company desirable. It was such a cold and utilitarian about-face, so completely reptilian, that I should have admired it. I didn't. I needed more.

Whatever," I said. "The point is, if it's a child small enough to throw, then she lost so much blood here she has to be dead." "She's eighteen years old," Debs said. "Almost nineteen." "Then assuming she's average size, I don't think we want to try to catch somebody who could throw her that hard. If you shoot him, he might get very annoyed and pull off your arms." Deborah