Quotes About Death

Are you a vegetarian?" I ask, based on the evidence in front of me. She nods. "Why?" "Because I have this theory that when we die, every animal that we've eaten has a chance at eating us back. So if you're a carnivore and you add up all the animals you've eaten—well, that's a long time in purgatory, being chewed.

Qué sutil ironía: justo cuando dejamos de querer matarnos, empezamos a morir. Cuando nos sentíamos fuertes, nos quedábamos sin fuerzas.

Como si cuando muriera alguien muy cercano a nosotros intercambiásemos los lugares. Y cuando lo superáramos, en realidad, estuviéramos viviendo su vida pero al revés: desde la muerte a la vida; desde la enfermedad a la salud

It was an exquisite irony: Just when we stopped wanting to kill ourselves, we started to die. Just when we were feeling strength, it was taken from us.

We did not choose our identity, but we were chosen to die by it. For stupid arbitrary reasons instilled by people who refused to see how arbitrary they were. We believe in the golden rule, but we also believe that people fail to live up to it, time and again. Because they fall prey to differences. Because some use the arbitrary very deliberately to keep their own power.

It is my father who looks diminished now. As if when someone close to us dies, we momentarily trade places with them, in the moment right before. And as we get over it, we're really living their life in reverse, from death to life, from sickness to health.

Satan brought death into the world, and Christ came to vanquish it.

From the scalped bodies of ancient warriors to the suicide bombers in today's newspaper headlines, history is drenched in human blood.

This adaptive logic suggests that the greater risk taking—and hence greater death rate—should occur among men who are at the bottom of the mating pool and who therefore risk getting shut out entirely. Men who are unemployed, unmarried, and young are greatly overrepresented in risky activities, ranging from gambling to lethal fights.

The bronze-haired avenger of his father's death, already filled with the fierce light of the future, is at sea and sailing fast for Troy.

Tennessee Williams choked to death on the plastic cap of a nasal spray.

He strode with the weight of robbed innocence and a stolen childhood, for a life time of pain and anger, of terror and death. - Frank Balenger

Thus, the process is "to die before you die," as stated in many religious traditions. That is, once you face your certain death, that repressed fear of death no longer runs you. Nothing scares you anymore. Fear is a big stack, and at the bottom of that stack is the fear of physical death.

The best=laid plans, one's most fastidious contingency strategies have revealed themselves in the cold light of day to be laughably inadequate, no match for the happenstance that seems of late only to promise death, mayhem, poverty, flood. And here you are, having spent all that time protecting your home from the oncoming elements only to find that it has been shored up with crackers.

Dread spilled over the Englishman, dread of a world in which he could not die, a world without fear, a meaningless world. Fear permeated all that he knew to be good in life: love, danger, adventure. That was the secret he carried with him and that carried him along. But why venture without fear? You can lie down in the desert and face the beast or the vulture or the villain and mock his weapons and his desires, but to what end? Without fear, what matter if they bite or peck or stab you?

He die one day, and then he go above of my head to live with your father. He weared the long hair, and after he died, the first day he come back here for to say hello to the peoples. He nice, the Jesus.

there are only two kinds of flights: ones in which you die and ones in which you do not.

I think about death all the time, but only in a romantic, self-serving way, beginning, most often, with my tragic illness and ending with my funeral. I see my brother squatting beside my grave, so racked by guilt that he's unable to stand. "If only I'd paid him back that twenty-five thousand dollars I borrowed," he says. I see Hugh, drying his eyes on the sleeve of his suit jacket, then crying even harder when he remembers I bought it for him.

Dad wants to talk about her death—he needs to—but unlike the rest of us, who yak incessantly about our feelings, he has no vocabulary for it and is reduced to the clichés you'd find on a sympathy card. It's like not knowing a language.

Dad said that the guy who can play guitar is going to be the life of the party. He's confusing life with death.

It's from Scandinavia! This, we learned, was the name of a region, a cold and forsaken place where people stayed indoors and plotted the death of knobs.

But it's a house, not a tombstone

he couldn't have been more than a few hours old when he died. Even in a jar, that kid has outearned me.

September 25, 2007 Paris To honor the death of Marcel Marceau I observed a minute of silence.