Quotes About Death

sense of the triumph of life over death is at the core of The Myth of Sisyphus with its austere message: in the absence of hope we must still struggle to survive, and so we do—by the skin of our teeth.

Neath cold sand I dreamed of death / but woke at dawn to see / in glory, the bright, the morning star.

It was true that I had traveled great distances for one so young, but my spirit had remained landlocked, unacquainted with love and all but a stranger to death…I had absented myself in my smug and airless self-deprivation.

He'll not confess he knew, in the end, that the drama of death does not come into it – that some pain's too dull to be worthy of a romantic shroud. Courage could have brushed glamour over what little there was, but courage is ridiculous when the other person doesn't want to know.

Concealed from the public eye, snug within his coffin, Mr Bird looked as he had looked in life. Despite his size and the flowing bulk of his flesh, he had borne always, since a child, the grey pallor of death; and he had a way of seeming as still as a statue.

Kill 'em all 'cept six. Save them for pallbearers.

Their language was an old wild language. They had known incredible loves and dark adventures and the twisted streets of alien cities. They had known the green breaking waves of the sea, and the green aisles of the silent forests. They had known war and death and fierce, cruel elation.

You said that death was not the end; most true. Death was not stronger than my love for you. But since sweet love so lightly gives, my friend, We are not dead, and yet - this is the end.

This is the end For all our skill we have not conquered death Our spirit leaves our bodies within our final breath. We lay our instrument of flesh aside When hurt beyond all mortal hope to end This is the end

Quando devi uccidere un uomo non costa nulla essere gentile.

He pushed her nails away from his eyes, accepting her bites as if they were no part of him. He pulled the cloth away from her throat, gripped it. Her screaming stopped. Her eyes started tears, died, grew big. She knew there was death, but life called her, sweet life, all the sweetness of youth, not yet gone. Dwight, the baronet, years of triumph, crying, dying.

He went down and found the body floating. Francis had been dead about an hour. In one of his hands, clutched so that they could barely unfasten it, was a rusty nail.

Joshua Poldark died in March 1783. In February of that year, feeling that his tenure was becoming short, he sent for his brother from Trenwith.

The only security was death. So long as one wanted to go on living one had to accept the risks.

She pushed the bolt across the door and sat abruptly in the first chair. Her romance was over; even though she rebelled against the fact, she knew that it was so. She felt faint and sick and desperately tired of being alive. If death could come quietly and peacefully she would accept it, would sink into it as one sank into a bed wanting only sleep and self-forgetfulness.

Christ's story was unequalled and his death to save sinners unsurpassed; moreover the Sermon on the Mount was the last word in ethics.

The Russian people were left floundering in the bog. Their worst misfortune was his birth: their next worst—his death.

Death stands at attention, obedient, expectant, ready to serve, ready to shear away the peoples en masse; ready, if called on, to pulverise, without hope of repair, what is left of civilisation. He awaits only the word of command. He awaits it from a frail, bewildered being, long his victim, now—for one occasion only—his Master.

kill not only men, but ideas.

He is no better than an epileptic corpse.

When the notes of life ring false, men should correct them by referring to the tuning-fork of death. It is when that clear menacing tone is heard that the love of life grows keenest in the human heart.

O sofrimento (capítulo três) não insulta o corpo. A morte chega com o sono. E vais sonhar que nem é preciso respirar, que o silêncio sem ar não é uma música má, pequeno como uma fagulha, a um toque te apagarás.

No existe vida que, aun por un instante, no sea inmortal. La muerte siempre llega con ese instante de retraso. En vano golpea con la aldaba en la puerta invisible. Lo ya vivido no se lo puede llevar.

Y helo aquí: en un estado indeporable, el escarabajo muerto en el sendero resplandece bajo el sol. El tiempo de una mirada basta para pensar en él: no le ha ocurrido nada importante, parece. Lo importante, dicen, es lo que nos atañe a nosotros. La vida, pero solo nuestra, o la muerte, pero también sólo nuestra, una muerte que así goza de su obligada primacía.