Quotes About Death

Death is not a lover. Oh yes he is.

What do you think death is, man? Of whom do we speak when we speak of a man who was and is not? Are these blind riddles or are they not some part of every man's jurisdiction? What is death if not an agency? And whom does he intend toward?

He said that far from making men reflective or wise it was his experience that death often leads them to attribute great consequence to trivial things.

Talih hiç de böyle bir ÅŸey olmayabilirdi. Karanl?kta yatm?? ölülere haset etmediÄŸi geceler nadirdi.

It is not to be thought that the life of darkness is sunk in misery and lost as if in sorrowing. There is no sorrowing. For sorrow is a thing that is swallowed up in death, and death and dying are the very life of the darkness. JACOB BOEHME

He watched him stoke the flames, God's own firedrake. The sparks rushed upward and died in the starless dark. Not all dying words are true and this blessing is no less real for being shorn of its ground.

Die Toten können deine Liebe nicht erwidern.

Those whom life does not cure death will. The world is quite ruthless in selecting between the dream and the reality, even where we will not.

He was sat as before save headless, drenched in blood, the cigarillo still between his fingers, leaning toward the dark and smoking grotto in the flames where his life had gone. Glanton rose. The men moved away. No one spoke. When they set out in the dawn the headless man was sitting like a murdered anchorite discalced in ashes and sark. Someone had taken his gun but the boots stood where he'd put them.

I think the dead have no nationality.

If you carry your past into battle you are riding to your death.

He saw men killed with guns and with knives and with ropes and he saw women fought over to the death whose value they themselves set at two dollars. He saw ships from the land of China

Sürmeye devam etti çünkü geri dönemezdi ve dünya o gün her zamankinden de güzeldi, o ise ölümüne yol al?yordu.

an old man at the farthest end of the table prayed for them all. He asked that God remember those who had died and he asked that the living gathered together here remember that the corn grows by the will of God and beyond that will there is neither corn nor growing nor light nor air nor rain nor anything at all save only darkness. Then they ate.

Nadie puede sobornar a la muerte, Billy Said. De veras. Nadie. Nor God. Nor God. Billy watched the light bring up the shapes of the water standing in the fields beyond the roadway. Where do we go when we die? he said. I don't know, the man said. Where are we now?

Sorry. Don't need sorry. Not in this house. Sorry laid the hearth here. Sorry ways and sorry people and heavensent grief and heartache to make you pine for your death.

and all the horsemen's faces gaudy and grotesque with daubings like a company of mounted clowns, death hilarious.

They wheeled Suttree on. Bearing his pained bones in their boat of flesh. To where the deadcarriage waits in the dark. Perhaps the wrath of God after all.

In the end we all come to be cured of our sentiments. Those whom life does not cure death will. The world is quite ruthless in selecting between the dream and the reality, even where we will not. Between the wish and the thing the world lies waiting.

In the end we all come to be cured of our sentiments. Those whom life does not cure, death will. The world is quite ruthless in selection between the dream and the reality, even where we will not. Between the wish and the thing, the world lies waiting.

Death is what the living carry with them. A state of dread, like some uncanny foretaste of a bitter memory. But the dead do not remember and nothingness is not a curse. Far from it.

The house was built in 1872. Seventy-seven years later his grandfather was the first to die in it. What others had lain in state in that hallway had been carried there on a gate or wrapped in a wagonsheet or delivered crated up in a raw pineboard box with a teamster standing at the door with a bill of lading. The ones that came at all. For the most part they were dead by rumor. A yellowed scrap of newsprint. A letter. A telegram.

there is no order in the world save that which death has put there.

Chigurh shot him in the face. Everything that Wells had ever known or thought or loved drained slowly down the wall behind him