Quotes About Death

I write to annoy God, to make Death laugh. I write because I can't get it right.

But what kind of love? It had so many faces, so many names. Jealousy wove a thread around it, and envy, and fear. People died for love–and killed for it. And yet in itself it was indefinable, it wore whatever passions people brought to it, like a mountebank, with no reality of its own.

When you watch the living force go out of a man's face as you fire your weapon into his unprotected body, it is very personal

We walked away from all that was warm and dear and stood frightened in cold rain where the guns fired, and in the end, we died in pain, the black stinking mud our shroud, embraced at last not by living arms, but by the bones of those who before us died …

Ye ken, it's the living and no' the dead who know the truth. The dead still believe it was worth dying for." ? Charles Todd, Racing the Devil

Hamish was like a trumpet in his head. "You will no' die. Do you hear me? You willna' die!" "You're already dead, Corporal. You can't stop me." Rutledge was finding it hard to concentrate. "You willna' die! I willna' let you die!

Dying goes on in the midst of life.

What they fail to reckon with, however, is the reverse of that slogan: if nothing is worth dying for, is anything worth living for?

Out of any two thoughts I have, one is devoted to death. Our days an uncertainty, a chaos and shapeless, all that our lives are blurs down, like a landscape reflected in water.

People are dying and my generation just does not care. Including me. But I want to care. I really want to. I want to care so bad.

Nature wants us to enjoy life to the full and die without giving it a second thought; Christianity wants the opposite.

proper work" usually involves performing a task you hate on behalf of people you'd gleefully club to death with a bull's knee if only it were legal to do so

the smell that came out of the lorry was disgusting. Sour and rotten. 'Jesus, who's died?" he said. 'About four-fifth's of the population of the world' said Justin. 'Very funny

He was a different person now, and not a better one, Oh, he could fight, he could swat sickos like flies; he was a bloody hero, wasn't he? He was Death himself. Riding a bike. But in the end, all he was doing was adding to the score of the dead. Was that all a hero was, then? A killing machine without a heart?

Sod this,' said Kyle and he swung his axe. Charlotte watched amazed, unable to look away, as the blade sliced clean through the father's neck and his head flew off.

Arran's grey-blue eyes opened and they were clear and bright. He smiled at Maxie. 'I love you, Mum,' he said quietly and he died in Maxie's arms.

Are you by yourself, darling? I can't bear the thought of you dying alone. No, mum, I'm with my friend. I'm with Courtney... Courtney... He called out her name. 'Courtney,' he said. 'I'm sorry...' But Courtney was already dead.

And then it was like he had been punched hard in the chest. He wasn't running anymore. He looked down. there was a silver bolt sticking out of him.no, that couldn't be. He couldn't have shot himself. He tried to augh, but it hurt to much. What was gong on? He had fallen. He was sitting down, his legs out in front of him. dead grown-ups lay all around him. Nothing moved. he couldn't breathe. His lungs were full of liquid. He looked up. The sky was flickering.

You are going to die in front of dozens of witnesses, and none of them will do a thing to help you or avenge you. Because they know exactly what you know: The world is ending.

There really is only one ending to any story. Human life ends in death. Until then, it keeps going and gets complicated and there's loss. Everything involves loss; every relationship ends in one way or another.

What is love anyway? From my new vantage point, I realize that love is nothing more than a messy conglomeration of need, desperation, fear of death and insecurity about penis size.

An earthmover was there, but instead of placing a casket into the ground, it was taking one out. They're removing the dead. Taking him to the suburbs. White flight. Black flight. Now dead flight.

What galleries and museums have to do with a dead man is beyond me. Writing about shit like that in the city we were living in seemed equal to writing about the surf conditions while reporting in the Gaza Strip.

Suffering had struck that stage empress; and she stood before her audience neither yielding to, nor enduring, nor in finite measure, resenting it: she stood locked in struggle, rigid in resistance. She stood, not dressed, but draped in pale antique folds, long and regular like sculpture. A background and entourage and flooring of deepest crimson threw her out, white like alabaster like silver: rather, be it said, like Death.