Quotes About Death

And so saw, by a trick, an angle, a flaring of torchlight far down the dark river, how the arrow—white-feathered, she would remember, white as innocence, as winter in midsummer, as death—fell from the summit of its long, high arc to take the coran in the shoulder, driving him, slack and helpless, from the rope into the river amid laughter turned to screaming in the night.

The problem was, it was as easy to be killed on a foolish quest in the company of fools as on an adventure of merit beside men one respected and trusted.

Le passé reste avec nous jusqu'à notre mort", avait écrit Protonias longtemps auparavant, "et nous devenons ensuite le souvenir d'autres personnes, jusqu'à ce qu'elles meurent à leur tour.

The war between Jews and Romans was fought with great ferocity by both sides, and it led to suffering, death, and destruction on a scale for which we have no other comparable testimony in the history of the early Roman empire, even if Josephus, its historian, exaggerated casualty figures on both sides. Yet some scholars have downplayed the scale and significance of the war of Jews against Romans. This book will prove that the war was not small, short,

I like death. I'm a big fan of it.

He ran like a mad thing into the night And the words in his mouth were stinking. By the time he had hurt his first white man He was no longer thinking. By the time he had hurt his fourth white man Rudolph Reed was dead. His neighbors gathered and kicked his corpse.

What shall I say, how is the truth to be said? You were born, you had body, you died. It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried.

You do not have to die this certain day. Death will abide, will pamper your postponement. I assure you death will wait. Death has a lot of time. Death can attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is just down the street; is most obliging neighbor; can meet you any moment. You need not die today. Stay here–through pout or pain or peskyness. Stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow. Graves grow no green that you can use. Remember, green's your color. You are Spring.

To say yes is to die A lot or a little. The dead wear capably their wry Enameled emblems. They smell. But that and that they do not altogether yell is all that we know well. It is brave to be involved, To be not fearful to be unresolved. Her new wish was to smile When answers took no airships, walked a while.

Not that anybody is saying that these people have no trouble. Merely that it is trouble with a gold-flecked beautiful banner. Nobody is saying that these people do not ultimately cease to be. And Sometimes their passings are even more painful than ours. It is just that so often they live till their hair is white. They make excellent corpses, among the expensive flowers. . . .

Surely--But I am very off from that. From surely. From indeed. From the decent arrow that was my clean naivete and my faith. This morning, men deliver wounds and death. They will deliver death and wounds tomorrow. And I doubt all. You. Or a violet.

But whether the death is that of a tubercular husband in "The Moon on the Water," a mystical figure such as Y?ko in Snow Country, or the drugged girl lying beside an old man in House of the Sleeping Beauties, death always has richly poetic implications in Kawabata's work, in contrast to the meticulously clinical deteriorations in Tanizaki's novels and the murderous destruction in Mishima's.

El?ttem van az apám – mondta. – Elmélyülten, élvezettel tudta lemetélni a körmeit a lábáról, aztán mégis meghalt. – Ez hogy jön ide? – kérdezte Aszperger idegesen. – Nem tudom – felelte Fiszer. – De nem tébolyító? Az embernek csak n?, csak n? a körme, és nem tehet róla!

Évekig rohangáltak az emberek – szólalt meg Szymanowski –, ki a halálból, be a halálba, egyik hitb?l a másikba, h?siesen, nagyszer?en, eszel?sen, bután, most aztán nincs hova rohanniuk, a rohanás mégis megmaradt valahol.

Only the insomniac looks on with open eyes, like a cadaver who forgot to die.

He is trapped underground, suddenly and unexpectedly close to death, but still in control of his fate. "At that moment I put death in my head and decided I would live with it," he says later.

I am sick of death and worst of all this sickness feeds on itself, the more afraid I am the more I am afraid the more I flee the more I am afraid the more I am haunted.

I am being killed by what keeps me from dying. And next the sea became very small no bigger than a bathtub. Rolling in pain crashed over and over again onto the edges of the world. Then a divinity fished her out.

Those I love go in the direction of what they call the last hour—what Clarice Lispector calls, "the hour of the star," "the hour of relinquishing all the lies that have helped us live. Writing or saying the truth is equivalent to death, since we cannot tell the truth. It is forbidden because it hurts everyone. We never say the truth, we must lie, mostly as a result of our two needs: our need for love and cowardice.

Power belongs to the smallest and to the dead.

We are learning to live with death, with the dead, we are learning with the life of our death in us, to live with cats, with mother, with envelopes, with secrets, to live each instant, we are learning to live, we are learning but we don't know. Envelopes of instants: are they life, are they death? The answer depends on my force of relife. Today I have the Force. Everything is living. Tomorrow we'll see. Today I have the Force of ascent.

This is why we desire so often to die, when we write, in order to see everything in a flash, and at least once shatter the spine of time with only one pencil stroke. — Hélène Cixous, Stigmata: Escaping Texts . (Routledge November 12, 1998)

We dislike matter, that is ourselves, because we are destined to matter, because anonymous matter is called death. Perhaps it isn't matter we dislike, perhaps it's anonymity. The anonymity to which we are destined - the loss of name - is what we repress at any price.

Men say that there are two unrepresentable things: death and the feminine sex. That's because they need femininity to be associated with death; it's the jitters that gives them a hard-on! for themselves! They need to be afraid of us. Look at the trembling Perseuses moving backward toward us, clad in apotropes. What lovely backs! Not another minute to lose. Let's get out of here.