Quotes About Death

She lifts her eyes, and there is Death in the corner, but not like a king with his iron crown, as the epics claimed. Why, it is a giant brush loaded with white paint. It descends upon her with gentle suddenness, obliterating the shape of the world.

What is the most wondrous thing on earth? Each day countless humans enter the Temple of Death, yet the ones left behind continue to live as though they were immortal.

What is more numerous than the grass? The thoughts that rise in the mind of man. Who is truly wealthy? That man to whom the agreeable and disagreeable, wealth and woe, past and future, are the same. What is the most wondrous thing on earth? Each day countless humans enter the Temple of Death, yet the ones left behind continue to live as though they were immortal.

I learned a new fact about love that day: it could kill. Sometimes it could kill instantaneously.

Just as we cast off worn clothes and wear new ones, when the time arrives, the soul casts off the body and finds a new one to work out its karma. Therefore the wise grieve neither for the living nor the dead. I

That's Hercules," I say, though perhaps I'm pointing at Ursa Major. I tell Mrs. Mehta of his death at the hands of his wife, who suspected him of loving another woman.

That woman's going to be the death of you!" Dhai Ma wailed. "She's wearing you down to skin and bone." But this was not true. The sorceress had taught me a yogic breath that filled me with energy so that I needed no other sustenance.

It wasn't that I was afraid of death. How could I be? I knew nothing of it. Still, I didn't want to die. Not without seeing Ram one more time. That's how the bonds of love tie us down.

Left alone to die on a frozen hill! I, whose life had been a rush of attending to the needs of my five husbands—how ironic that at the moment of my own final need not one of them should be with me!

The dream comes heralding joy. I welcome the dream. The dream comes heralding sorrow. I welcome the dream. The dream is a mirror showing me my beauty. I bless the dream. The dream is a mirror showing me my ugliness. I bless the dream. My life is nothing but a dream From which I will wake into death, which is nothing but a dream of life.

After that, somehow, I began fixing things in my life. Dr Berger says being close to death will do that, but I'm not sure catalysts of change can be so easily identified.

He'd probably kill us both with the same blow. A little part of my mind said, That's all right. It would be better than living on alone if he killed Ram.

I'd never bared my soul to Krishna in this way. I was afraid he would laugh at me. Still, I said, "When I thought you had died, I wanted to die, too." Krishna gazed into my eyes. Was it love I saw in his face? If so, it was different in kind from all the loves I knew. Or perhaps the loves I'd known had been something different, and this alone was love.

Ram, lifting him up, also wept, because he knew that Dasharath was dead. 'He died just moments after you left, crying your name, his eyes darkening even before the dust had settled from the passing of your chariot,' Bharat said. I learned a new fact about love that day: it could kill.

Death entered the medical miracle of the twentieth century already camouflaged. But in scientifically advanced nations, it now takes place in hospitals or nursing homes, out of view, a medical failure rather than a natural process. And, to 'protect' our children, rarely does it make an appearance within their beautifully illustrated picture books.

have forgotten it all, and anyway there is nothing to remember; everything is illusion, yet I am confident that all is well." Just before his death the old man said, "When I die you must not move my body for a week; this is all that I desire.

The dead with the dead, the living with the living.

All that day and into the night, my mother knelt before her altar, before the icon of the Virgin, before the candles burning, and rolled her rosary between her hands, beating her chest and calling for mercy, for some intercession. As I watched her, I realized that she could see death, and I too, and it wasn't some ugly skeleton with a scythe--death is a beautiful woman, eyes soft from morning dew, lips pulled back in the saddest smile, praying at an altar for her husband's life.

See you spend your whole life fighting with your father and no time on making your own life. What will you do when he dies? Fight yourself?

Deach becomes some men. Others wear it shamefully; others still, defiantly. Their protest choking, suffocating.

Death is a flock of blackbirds low over muddy streets in war-torn Sarajevo. Dirt-stained walls yearn for all that is night. Elegies fall like raw silk. If there is a way it is here. Salt and ash.

Death is always the expectation here and when my throat was cut it was no different.

He said a political writer must be careful. He quoted Auden: A writer's politics are more dangerous to him than his cupidity. He said, Political sentimentality is as bad as any other kind. You have to acknowledge ambiguity, complexity. There is a kind of death that creeps into your prose when you're trying to illustrate a principle, no matter how worthy.

Behind everyday reality, there is a deeper reality so cruel that it condemns to death those who crime is no greater than the pursuit of their own curiosity. ("Shem-El-Nessim: An Inspiration In Perfume")