Quotes About Death

She would die like some bird in a frost gripping her perch.

Partly for that reason, its secrecy, complete and inviolable, he had found life like an unknown garden, full of turns and corners, surprising, yes; really it took one's breath away, these moments; there coming to him by the pillar-box opposite the British Museum one of them, a moment, in which things came together; this ambulance; and life and death.

At last the play was ended. All had grown dark. The tears streamed down his face. Looking up into the sky there was nothing but blackness there too. Ruin and death, he thought, cover all. The life of man ends in the grave. Worms devour us. Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe Should yawn Ã¢â'¬â€

The autumn trees, ravaged as they are, take on the flash of tattered flags kindling in the gloom of cool cathedral caves where gold letters on marble pages describe death in battle and how bones bleach and burn far away in Indian sands.

It ended in a transcendental theory which, with her horror of death, allowed her to believe, or say that she believed (for all her scepticism), that since our apparitions, the part of us which appears, are so momentary compared with the other, the unseen part of us, which spreads wide, the unseen might survive, be recovered somehow attached to this person or that, or even haunting certain places, after death. Perhaps - perhaps.

De modo que não havia mesmo desculpa; não tinha absolutamente nada, exceto o pecado pelo qual a natureza humana o condenava à morte, o pecado de não sentir.

Es tan duro de matar un fantasma como una realidad.

After that, how unbelievable death was! - that it must end; and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all; how, every instant . . .

Would that we might spare the reader what is to come and say to him in so many words, Orlando died and was buried. But here, alas, Truth, Candour, and Honesty, the austere Gods, who keep watch and ward by the inkpot of the biographer, cry No!

Qué derecho tenían los Bradshaw a hablar de muerte en su fiesta? Se había matado, sí, pero ¿cómo? El cuerpo de Clarissa siempre lo revivía, en el primer instante, bruscamente, cuando le contaban un accidente; se le inflamaba el vestido, le ardía el cuerpo.

Has the finger of death to be laid on the tumult of life from time to time lest it rend us asunder? Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of the living?

Es preciso que el dedo de la muerte se pose en el tumulto de la vida de vez en cuando para que no nos haga pedazos? ¿Estamos conformados de tal manera que diariamente necesitamos minúsculas dosis de muerte para ejercer el oficio de vivir?

The early train from the north is hurled at her like a missile. We draw a curtain as we pass. Blank expectant faces stare at us as we rattle and flash through stations. Men clutch their newspapers a little tighter, as our wind sweeps them, envisaging death. But we roar on. We are about to explode in the flanks of the city like a shell in the side of some ponderous, maternal, majestic animal.

Terá o dedo da morte de pousar de vez em quando no tumulto da vida para evitar que ele nos despedace? Tal será a nossa condição que devamos receber, diariamente, a morte, em pequenas doses, para podermos prosseguir na empresa da vida?

La muerte era desafío. La muerte era -por parte de personas que sentían la imposibilidad de alcanzar el centro que, místicamente, se les escapaba, que vivían una proximidad convertida en lejanía, un éxtasis desvirtuado, que se quedaban solas- un intento de comunicar. Había un abrazo en la muerte.

The red setter who had been whining all night beside Flush on the floor was hauled off by a ruffian in a moleskin vest—to what fate? Was it better to be killed or to stay here? Which was worse—this life or that death?

Deveria o dedo da morte ser posto, de tempos em tempos, sobre o tumulto da vida para evitar que ela nos esfacele? Seríamos feitos de tal forma que precisamos experimentar a morte em pequenas doses diárias para poder continuar exercendo o ofício de viver?

Qué enemigo percibimos ahora avanzando hacia nosotros, tú, sobre quien ahora cabalgo, mientras piafamos en este pavimento? Es la muerte. La muerte es el enemigo. Es la muerte contra la que cabalgo, lanza en ristre y melena al viento, como un hombre joven, como Percival cuando galopaba en la India. Pico espuelas. ¡Contra ti me lanzaré, entero e invicto, oh Muerte!

I have sought happiness through many ages and not found it; fame and missed it; love and not known it; life--behold, death is better. I have known many men and women, she continued: none have I understood.

It is ten years since Virginia Woolf published her last volume of collected essays, THE COMMON READER: SECOND SERIES. At the time of her death she was already engaged in getting together essays for a further volume, which she proposed to publish in the autumn of 1941 or the spring Of 1942. She also intended to publish a new book of short stories, including in it some or all of MONDAY OR TUESDAY, which has been long out of print. She left

E poi, ora che era condannato, abbandonato da tutti, completamente solo, come è solo chi sta per morire, c'era un privilegio in questo, un isolamento che aveva del sublime, una libertà che chi ha legami non potrà mai conoscere.

Non aveva voglia di morire. La era bella. Il sole caldo. E gli esseri umani?

Death was defiance. Death was an attempt to communicate; people feeling the impossiblity of reaching the centre which, mystically, evaded them; closeness drew apart; rapture faded; one was alone. There was an embrace in death.

How could any Lord have made this world? she asked. With her mind she had always seized the fact that there is no reason, order, justice: but suffering, death, the poor.