Quotes About Death

No one likes a dying man, Chauncey, because few know what death is. All we know is the terror of it.

She saw death as just another wedding she wasn't invited to.

How do you do it?" I asked her. "How do you keep getting up every day and fighting when winning seems impossible?" She thought about it, and then she said, "Men sometimes say to me: You might win the battle, Gurley, but you'll never win the war. But no one wins the war, Ryan. Not really. I mean, we're all going to die, right? "But to win a battle now and then? What more could you want?

Hell, it took only your first day in a Montana flop or standing over your mother's unmarked grave to know that equal was the one thing all men were not. A few lived like kings, and the rest hugged the dirt until it cracked open and took them home.

He flushed with sadness, as if every moment of his life were occurring all at once—his sister dying in childbirth, his mother squirming in that one-room flop, poor Danny sliding between wet logs, Gig in jail, and Jules dead—and how many more? All people, except this rich cream, living and scraping and fighting and dying, and for what, nothing, the cold millions with no chance in this world.

Io ti maledico a morire lentamente, tormentato dalla tua anima miserabile!" I curse you to a

How can you not feel like a whole city of people waiting for it to finally be over, a whole city tending a parent's slow death?

I imagine that anyone who goes through trauma like I have wonders the same things I do: how God can exist and allow such awful things to happen. There are no reasons for my parents' death, and that's that.

There's no death wish. Ironically, it's the opposite. We're after an enhanced sense of life. We trip over death, but don't take it. The process, the ritual of this, is all for the thrill and the power from the pleasure that seeps into every part of you during dying and surfacing. The intoxication is nearly impossible to fight.

She had mailed them a few days before she died, wishing everyone a great future. It was a powerful lesson in creating a legacy by choosing your words with intention. We are on this earth such a short time, cruelly short in Sarah's case. What message did I want to leave behind?

Trust me, I know what self loathing is. But to kill myself? That would put a damper on my search for answers. Not at all productive. Besides, I've become increasingly doubtful as to whether I can die at all. But let's not get into that.

The knowledge of death seemed present in both sisters—it was something about the way they carried themselves, something that had broken too soon and had not mended, marking them in spite of their lightheartedness.

Plato says the purpose of philosophy is to teach us how to die.

In Hindu philosophy the three tenses—past, present, future—were said to exist simultaneously in God. God was timeless, but time was personified as the god of death. Descartes, in his Third Meditation, said that God re-created the body at each successive moment. So that time was a form of sustenance.

But death, too, had the power to awe, she knew this now-that a human being could be alive for years and years, thinking and breathing and eating, full of a million worries and feelings and thoughts, taking up space in the world, and then, in an instant, become absent, invisible.

It (birth) had caused Ruma to acknowledge the supernatural in everyday life. But death, too, had the power to awe, she knew this now- that a human being could be alive for years and years, thinking and breating and eating, full of a million worries and feelings and thoughts, taking up space in the world, and then in an instant, become absent, invisible.

Containers may be the destiny of many in that they hold our remains after death. But this novel reminds us that narrative refuses to stay put, and that the effort of telling stories only pins things down so far. In the end it is language itself that is the most problematic container; it holds too much and too little at the same time.

By the time the paramedics had arrived she was dead from an aneurysm. She was in her thirties, unmarried, perpetually sipping herbal tea.

Planning to play: that's what saving for retirement is today - and it is antithetical to the nature of play, fully within the definition of work, and blissfully ignorant of the reality of death.

I've come to look upon death the same way I look upon root-canal work. Everyone else seems to get through it all right, so it couldn't be too difficult for me.

Every work of art is an abstraction from time; it denies the reality of change and decay and death.

In Nashville, there is a historic tendency to work the lyric to death while settling for music that works. In pop or rock, it can be the other way around.

The perpetual work of your life is but to lay the foundation of death.

Our unconscious is like a vast subterranean factory with intricate machinery that is never idle, where work goes on day and night from the time we are born until the moment of our death.