Quotes About Death

Ravens are the birds I'll miss most when I die. If only the darkness into which we must look were composed of the black light of their limber intelligence. If only we did not have to die at all. Instead, become ravens.

Fish bones walked the waves off HatterasAnd there were other signsThat Death wooed us, by water, wooed usBy land:

At least I don't believe in God", he told the Russian one morning. "And if you did believe, Mechanik, what then?" "Then I'd kill myself. Because if God is all-powerful and all-knowing, he must have no pity. He looks down and sees everything and doesn't bring evil to an end. I wouldn't live if I thought a God could end the pain and didn't." "And what good would your death do?" "It would teach a God a lesson.

Do you know what I've learned, after three decades of death?" Gamache asked, leaning toward the agent and lowering his voice. Despite himself, the agent leaned forward. "I've learned how precious life is.

What killed people wasn't a bullet, a blade, a fist to the face. What killed people was a feeling. Left too long. Sometimes in the cold, frozen. Sometimes buried and fetid. And sometimes on the shores of a lake, isolated. Left to grow old, and odd.

Violent death demanded Earl Grey.

Death sits on my shoulder like a crow … Or a judge, muttering about sluts and punishment. And licking his lips.

The funny thing about murder is that the act is often committed decades before the actual action. Something happens, and it leads, inexorably, to death many years later. A bad seed is planted. It's like those old horror films from the Hammer studios, of the monster, not running, never running, but walking without pause, without thought or mercy, toward its victim. Murder is often like that. It starts way far off.

I know how precious life is. You had no right to take Renaud's and you have no right to take your own now. Not over this. Too much death. It needs to stop.

There was nothing right or good in dying for your country. A necessity, sometimes, yes. But always a tragedy. Not an aspiration.

Their creations eventually die of neglect, of malnourishment. And sometimes, when that happens the artist also dies.

the Maori and their haka. It is death. It is death, they chant. To terrify, to petrify.

But Armand always said people react differently to death, and it was folly to judge anyone and double folly to judge what people do when faced with sudden, violent death. Murder. They weren't themselves.

Violent, intentional, death still surprised him, whether of a man or mouse.

Miss Neal's was not a natural death, unless you're of the belief everything happens as it's supposed to.

I'm sorry, but I have bad news. Your aunt was found dead today.' 'Oh, no,' she responded, with all the emotion one greets a stain on an old T-shirt.

He knew it was there, that opiate of the Anglos. And his hand clutched the box just as the kettle whistled. Violent death demanded Earl Grey.

Close to death anyway, it was felt. It wasn't worth the effort to investigate. And before we get all high and mighty, let's remember what happened here not long ago in the pandemic. Let's remember what happens when a street worker, a gay or transsexual man or woman, a Black man or woman, an indigenous man or woman or child is killed. There's hardly a great outpouring of attention or resources. Or grief.

Al's mouth formed the beginning of a word. Why, perhaps. Or, what. But it died there. And Gamache saw Laurent's father pack up his home, take all his possessions, and move. To that other world. Where nine-year-old boys were killed. A world where nine-year-old boys were murdered. Armand Gamache was the moving man, the ferryman, who took him there. And once across there was no going back.

Why did you say he was dead?" Marc asked. If he hadn't Beauvoir would have. He'd always thought his own family more than a little odd. Never a whisper, never a calm conversation. Everything was charged, kinetic. Voices raised, shouting, yelling. Always in each other's faces, in each other's lives. It was a mess. He'd yearned for calm, for peace, and had found it in Enid. Their lives were relaxed, soothing, never going too far, or getting too close.

He wondered if those who'd experienced death recognized the boatman.

She was scared to death. She was killed by her beliefs. By someone taking advantage of them.

For Frère Mathieu there were no more mysteries. He knew who took his life. And he now knew if there was a God. And a Heaven. And angels. And even a celestial choir.

If you died on the side of a mountain, it was in the middle of a selfish, meaningless act. A feat of strength and ego, wrapped in bravado.