Quotes About Death

Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my soul. On me alone. The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly light on the tortured face. Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all prayed on their knees. Her eyes on me to strike me down. Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat. Ghoul! Chewer of corpses! No mother. Let me be and let me live.

Cos'è uno spettro? [...] Uno che è svanito nell'impalpabilità per morte, per assenza, per cambiamento di usi.

What were they now but cerements shaken from the body of death—the fear he had walked in night and day, the incertitude that had ringed him round, the shame that had abased him within and without—cerements, the linens of the grave? His soul had arisen from the grave of boyhood, spurning her graveclothes.

There'll be bluebells blowing in salty sepulchres the night she signs her final tear.

Su alma se desvaneció lentamente al escuchar el dulce descenso de la nieve a través del universo, su dulce caída, como el descenso de la última postrimería, sobre todos los vivos y los muertos.

passed Grogan's the Tobacconist against which newsboards leaned and told of a dreadful catastrophe in New York. In America those things were continually happening. Unfortunate people to die like that, unprepared. Still, an act of perfect contrition.

Dead: an old woman's: the grey sunken cunt of the world.

As true as I'm drinking this porter if he was at his last gasp he'd try to downface you that dying was living.

It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my soul. On me alone. The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly light on the tortured face. Her hoarse and loud breath ratting in horror, while all prayed on their knees.

A sua alma desfalecia languidamente enquanto ele ouvia a neve cair suavemente em todo o universo e cair suavemente, como a descida do seu fim derradeiro, sobre todos os vivos e os mortos.

He had a sudden death, poor fellow, he said. — The best death, Mr Bloom said. Their wide open eyes looked at him. — No suffering, he said. A moment and all is over. Like dying in sleep.

Therefore, everyman, look to that last end that is thy death and the dust [369] that gripeth on every man that is born of woman for as he came naked forth from his mother's womb so naked shall he wend him at the last for to go as he came.

But this is the point. You die for your country, suppose. (He places his arm on Private Carr's sleeve.) Not that I wish it for you. But I say: Let my country die for me. Up to the present it has done so. I don't want it to die. Damn death. Long live life!

He gives up the ghost. A violent erection of the hanged sends gouts of sperm spouting through his death clothes on to the cobblestones. Mrs Bellingham, Mrs Yelverton Barry and the Honourable Mrs Mervy Talboys rush forward with their handkerchiefs to sop it up.)

E' morto per un brutto caso di ventesimo secolo.

Norman Cousins said, "Death is not the enemy, living in constant fear of it is.

death is not the nightmare we've been led to fear. Maybe it's no more than an effortless step out of this world into the next—nearer to God's heavenly kingdom.

Just as man is destined to die once, and after that to face judgment, so Christ was sacrificed once to take away the sins of many people."28

El calendario de la fama Adiós, adiós, mis amadas manos dijo Rachmaninov en su lecho de muerte y Joseph Hofmann, el gran pianista, inventó el limpiaparabrisas de observar su metrónomo Genio que soy, que lo único que puedo hacer es marcar las teclas equivocadas en mi máquina de escribir

It was the poem that explained the nature of courage and turned the mystery of death into a heroic couplet. Ultimately, it was the poem that banished fear from the heart and transformed us from actors into participants.

Death was a rodent that ate its way inch by inch through your entrails, chewed at your liver and stomach, severed tendon from organ, until finally, when you were along in the dark, it sat gorged and sleek next to your head, its eyes resting, its wet muzzle like a kiss, a promise whispered in your ear.

I guess that seems like an absurd premise until we consider the possibility that the dead are always with us, beckoning from the shade, reminding us that we're actors in the same drama they have already lived and that they can help us with our lives if we will only let them.

People who commit suicide in a dramatic fashion often have an agenda and are involved in a fantasy that leads to their death. They're filled with rage and seek revenge against those who have hurt them. They slash their wrists or jump from buildings or fire bullets into their brain. In their fantasy, they witness the discovery of their body by people they hate. In that way, they leave behind a legacy of guilt and sorrow.