Quotes About Death

Even if she loved him with all her heart, it would still be the love of a dead woman.

Concha ölümümü öÄŸrenince aÄŸlayacakt?. Aylarca içinden yaÅŸamak isteÄŸi gelmeyecekti. Ama ölecek olan bendim. ...

Mourir n'est pas facile

Pamaž?le žengiau prie pabaigos, netur?damas nei kit? vil?i?, nei kitoki? troškim?,išskyrus tuos, kuriais teks užpildyti savo knygas, ?sitikin?s, kad paskutinis mano širdies pol?kis bus ?rašytas ? paskutinio mano rašt? tomo puslap? ir kad mir?iai atiteks tik lavonas.

In my case, I chose writing in place of death, and because I lacked faith.

Se muere siempre demasiado pronto, o demasiado tarde.

I dreamed vaguely of killing myself to wipe out at least one of these superfluous lives.

Aujourd'hui, je leur donne raison : ils avaient tout accepté de notre condition, même l'inquiétude ; j'avais choisi d'être rassuré ; et c'était bien vrai, au fond, que je me croyais immortel : je m'étais tué d'avance parce que les défunts sont seuls à jouir de l'immortalité.

Prima di prendere questa decisione mi sentivo in una solitudine così terribile che pensavo al suicidio. Ciò che mi ha trattenuto è stata l'idea che nessuno, assolutamente nessuno si sarebbe commosso alla mia morte, che in morte sarei stato ancora più solo che in vita.

Widzi pan, ?e ich pan nie kocha, tych dwojga. Mo?e nie potrafi?by ich pan nawet rozpozna? na ulicy. Stanowi? dla pana tylko symbole. Nie nad nimi si? pan teraz rozczula: rozczula si? pan nad M?odo?ci? Cz?owieka, nad Mi?o?ci? M??czyzny i Kobiety, mad G?osem ludzkim. -I co z tego, czy to nie istnieje? -Oczywi?cie,?e nie, to nie istnieje. Ani M?odo??, ani Wiek dojrza?y, ani Staro??, ani ?mier?...

Tired and old, they kept on existing, against the grain, simply because they were too weak to die, because death could only come to them from the outside: strains of music alone can proudly carry their own death within themselves like an internal necessity: only they don't exist. Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness and dies by chance.

Something begins in order to end: an adventure doesn't let itself be extended; it achieves significance only through its death. Towards this death, which may also be my own, I am drawn irrevocably. Each moment appears only to bring on the moments after. To each moment I cling with all my heart: I know that it is unique, irreplaceable – and yet I would not lift a finger to prevent it from being annihilated.

Escape is no longer called for or even especially healthy. Escape from life is death.

Rather than see me or have me touch it again, it died.

So you're not going to die, are you? she [Astor] asked politely. Not yet, I said. Not until after you do your homework. She nodded, glanced toward the kitchen, and said, I hate math. Then she wandered away down the hall, presumably to hate math at closer range.

At nineteen, I certainly didn't know the answer, although I already knew more about death than most of the other pimple-ridden pudding heads in my sophomore class at the University of Miami.

just before I started the serious work Father Donovan opened his eyes and looked at me. There was no fear now; that happens sometimes. He looked straight up at me and his mouth moved. What? I said. I moved my head a little closer. I can't hear you. I heard him breathe, a slow and peaceful breath, and then he said it again before his eyes closed. You're welcome, I said, and I went to work.

It was Rogelio, Chutsky's friend from the front desk, who was going to tell us when Weiss checked in. But it certainly didn't look like he was going to tell us much of anything, unless we listened to him with a Ouija board. Because if appearances were any guide at all, judging by the belt so tightly wrapped around his neck and the way his tongue and eyes bulged out, Rogelio was extremely dead.

I AM NOT REALLY PARANOID. I DON'T BELIEVE THAT I AM surrounded by mysterious enemies who seek to trap me, torture me, kill me. Of course, I know very well that if I allow my disguise to slip and reveal me for what I am, then this entire society will join together in calling for my slow and painful death, but this is not paranoia—this is a calm, clearheaded view of consensus reality, and I am not frightened by it. I simply try to be careful so it doesn't happen.

Give me liberty or give me death," I told him. "Death is much easier to arrange, I'm afraid," he said, shaking his head. "Maybe," I said. "But I have to do what I can.

The rest of her seemed to be just as thoroughly ravaged; her nipple was missing, apparently chewed away like the ear, and her stomach had been slit open right below the navel. I could see at least three wounds that might have killed her, and a dozen more that would have been horrible enough to make death seem like a good idea.

Being dead doesn't hurt at all. It's being alive that hurts. And it's a lot more dangerous than being dead, too.

The Schwarzkogler in question turned out to be Rudolf, an Austrian who considered himself an artist, and in order to prove it he reportedly sliced his penis off a little bit at a time and took photographs of the process. This was such an artistic triumph that he continued his career, until his masterpiece finally killed him.

I nodded. It made a certain amount of sense. Deborah had recently been stabbed, and had come so close to death from blood loss that the difference was a matter of a few seconds in the ambulance. And certainly Chutsky, her boyfriend, would know about that—he had been some kind of intelligence operative before being disabled, and his body was a raised-relief road map of scar tissue.