Quotes About Death

What did your last slave die of?

If I die, leave me alone. Don't sing to me. Bury me wrapped in the deck I leave behind, in that lovely treasure that will know how to strum me like a sure hand. I'll sound like a fragrance from the depths, very grave. I 'll rise to your ears, and from there, turned into pure vegetation, I 'll debunk myself, untelling my own story, my own plot, Rowing back into my mouth left ajar, into the Dream that keeps on swallowing and, like a cardboard mask, won 't cough me up.

Podéis creerlo, la tumba tiene más poder que los ojos de la amada. La tumba abierta con todos sus imanes. Y esto te lo digo a ti, a ti que cuando sonríes haces pensar en el comienzo del mundo.

There are many forms of service that you can render to your country ... what I want to impress on you is that if death is necessary to accomplish your end in upholding your dignity and that of your country then death should be nothing.

When Williams unleashed his fury on Po Toke, the old mahout, sobbing, admitted that Bandoola was dead. He claimed he did not know what had happened.

Two riders led Williams to the body. "There lay Bandoola," Williams would write. He stared in disbelief at the rotting corpse, not quite ready to comprehend that his hero was gone. Bandoola's right tusk had been hacked off, and the left remained plowed into the earth where his head had fallen. A single bullet fired directly into his skull had killed him.

Death," she said, as her hand dropped away, " is how you know you were alive in the first place.

Oh, also, do not eat any of the luscious pomeganates that grow near my palace, because if you do, you will never return to the land of the living. Why rush things, right?

One does not learn how to die by killing others.

My father invented a cure for which there was no disease and unfortunately my mother caught it and died of it.

part of the battle, before things had gone from bad to worse. Alem imagined himself in Tosh's position, with death coming

Our life dreams the Utopia. Our death achieves the Ideal.

It is nothing to die. It is frightful not to live.

You who suffer because you love, love still more. To die of love, is to live by it.

I think this guy's dead," the coroner said, scooting another inch or two, to be safe. "There's something wrong here," Tom said. They both looked at him. "No, I'm pretty sure of it," the coroner said. "That bullet hole, for one thing. Plus, he's not breathing. That's the kind of thing we look for.

Did the primitive Ancestor have any inkling of voluntary death? Or is that an attainment of the higher civilizations, which offer no other means of escape? Let's

He aquí la muerte, fin de un universo.

The revolution died a self-inflicted death in 1918 with the establishment of the Cheka.

The way memory is the ringing after a gunshot. The way we try to remember the gunshot but can't. The way memory gets up after someone has died and starts walking.

What's the rush?", you said about publishing. I added: "Does the world need another competent book of poems?" Most times, we wouldn't answer our own questions because what did we know? We only knew that we couldn't scrub poetry off our bodies. And we ourselves feared the greatest death, which was writing merely competent poems.

The way grief is really about future absence. The way the future closes its offices when a mother dies. What's left: a hole in the ground the size of violence.

Tomas Tranströmer—died on March 26, 2015, at the age of 83. He wrote: I am carried in my shadow / like a violin / in its black case. // The only thing I want to say / glitters out of reach / like the silver / in a pawnbroker's.

I put a fish ball in my mouth. My optimism covered the whole ball as if the fish had never died, had never been gutted and rolled into a humiliating shape. To acknowledge death is to acknowledge that we must take another shape.

Because dying lasts forever until it stops.