Quotes About Death

Ah, Robbie, when we are dead and buried in our porphyry tombs, and the trumpet of the Last Judgement is sounded, I shall turn and whisper to you, 'Robbie, Robbie, let us pretend we do not hear it.

One of the greatest tragedies of my life is the death of Lucien de Rubempré… It haunts me in my moments of pleasure. I remember it when I laugh.

Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now;" but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.

He who lives more lives than one More deaths than one must die.

I am dying beyond my means

Alas, I'm dying beyond my means

I did not know it was such pain to die; I thought that life had taken all the agonies to itself.

Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with grasses waving up above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace. 'You can help me. You can open for me the portals of Death's house, for Love is always with you, and Love is stronger than Death is.

I am sick to death of cleverness. Everybody is clever nowadays. You can't go anywhere without meeting clever people. The thing has become a public nuisance. I wish to goodness we had a few fools left.

Death is the only thing that ever terrifies me. I hate it. Why? said the younger man wearily. Because, said Lord Henry, passing beneath his nostrils the gilt trellis of an open vinaigrette box, one can survive everything nowadays except that.

Oh! I killed Bunbury this afternoon... I mean poor Bunbury died this afternoon. What did he die of? Bunbury? Oh, he was exploded!

Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?

O we are wearied of this sense of guilt, Wearied of pleasure's paramour despair, Wearied of every temple we have built, Wearied of every unanswered right, unanswered prayer, For man is weak; God sleeps: and heaven is high: One fiery-colored moment: one great love: and lo! we die.

Lord Canterville: I feat that the ghost exists . . . and always makes its appearance before the death of any member of our family. Mr. Otis: Well, so does the family doctor for that matter, Lord Canterville. But there is no such thing, sir, as a ghost, and I guess the laws of Nature are not going to be suspended for the British aristocracy.

O we are wearied of this sense of guilt, Wearied of pleasure's paramour despair, Wearied of every temple we have built, Wearied of every right, unanswered prayer, For man is weak; God sleeps: and heaven is high: One fiery-coloured moment: one great love; and lo! we die. Ah!

He felt that life was changeful, fluid, active, and that to allow it to be stereotyped into any form was death. He saw that people should not be too serious over material, common interests: that to be unpractical was to be a great thing: that one should not bother too much over affairs. The birds didn't, why should man?

Nay! for perchance that poppy-crownèd god Is like the watcher by a sick man's bed Who talks of sleep but gives it not; his rod Hath lost its virtue, and, when all is said, Death is too rude, too obvious a key To solve one single secret in a life's philosophy. And

LA VIDA NO ES LA QUE VIVIMOS. LA VIDA ES EL HONOR Y EL RECUERDO. POR ESO MAS VALE MORIR CON EL PUEBLO VIVO, Y NO VIVIR CON EL PUEBLO MUERTO. Life is not as it seems, Life is pride and personal history. Thus it is better that one die and that the people should live, rahter than one live and the people should die. ~Lopitos

And the truth of the matter is that death is a mystery to me. I have no opinion on the subject.

Tunc amo, tunc odi frustra, quod amare necesse est; tunc ego, sed tecum, mortuus esse uelim.

O gods, If any gods will listen, I deserve Punishment surely, I do not refuse it, But lest, in living, I offend the living, Offend the dead in death, drive me away From either realm, change me somehow, refuse me Both life and death! -- Myrrha, before being transformed into a tree

Nothing retains its original form, but Nature, the goddess of all renewal, keeps altering one shape into another. Nothing at all in the world can perish, you have to believe me; things merely vary and change their appearance. What we call birth is merely becoming a different entity; what we call death is ceasing to be the same. Though the parts may possibly shift their position from here to there, the wholeness in nature is constant.

His eyes that swam in death's dark night looked round For Athis, and he lay down by his side, Solaced among the shades to share his death.

what we call birth is when something first changes out of its former condition, and what we call death is when its identity ceases; things may perhaps be translated hither and thither; nevertheless, they stay constant in their sum total