Quotes About Death

On their way to freedom, some people find riches, some people find death.

I was afraid of the dead, as was everyone I knew. We were afraid of the dead because we never could tell when they might show up again.

Oh, l'indignité qu'il y a dans la mort ; heureusement que les morts semblent incapables de s'en apercevoir.

His death was imminent and we were all anticipating it, including him, but we never gave any thought to the fact that this was true for all of us, too: our death was imminent, only we were not anticipating it ... yet.

Jag önskar att jag kunde älska någon så högt att jag bara dog. Och när jag tittade på denna mening sköljde en våg av skam över mig. Jag brast i gråt och tårarna trillade ner på boksidan tills orden förvandlades till en stor plump.

Death is the only reality, for it is the only certainty, inevitable to all things.

Heaven is being in the land of the living. Hell is when you die and you are in a hole in the ground. No one gets a pass on death."

The flesh of my flesh. And the bone of my bone. Must return to mother earth to replenish the soil of the ground. As manure is to the plants."

The man soul is nothing more than being dead or alive.

To be or not to be, is being here in the now if you are not here now, you are not in the now. Since we are sure about now to be here now, but not later. And since, there are no guarantees in life. All that we have is the now to be here, or not to be here. Given, that the evil forces of death will sign our death warrant to be or to not to be."

It was his opinion that a man had to wait until he was dead to know the meaning of God, unless he happened to have known the sea in his youth.

Everything about the creature was terrifying. The way it moved, the way it looked – even the way it died.

He felt that he was lying, and in some way being disloyal as well, but he said only, "He was instantly killed. He didn't have to feel any pain.

Andrew walked with him to the front door. "Just let me know, Andrew. Anything ," Walter said. "I will and thank you," Andrew replied. Their eyes met, and for a moment both were caught in astonishment. He wishes it was me ! Andrew thought. He wishes it was himself ! Walter thought. Perhaps I do, too , Andrew thought, and once again, as he had felt when he first saw the dead body, he felt absurd, ashamed, guilty almost of cheating, even of murder, in being alive.

The man said somehow he was sure he was—dead—the minute he saw him. He doesn't know how. Just some special kind of stillness.

Fate does not invite ugly boring people to save the world; and if you do try to save the world (without being beautiful, strong, clever, or wise), you will soon die pointlessly and how much adventure is there in that?

Being grateful is the bridge between the world of nightmares and the world where we are free to say no. It's the bridge between the world of delusions and the world of creativity. It's the power that brings death back to life, the power that turns poverty to wealth and anger to compassion.

But this graveyard of dead books doesn't unnerve me. It reminds me that I had a deeper motive, one that only the approach of old age and death has unlocked. I wrote to answer questions I had — the motive of all art, whatever its ostensible subject. There were things I urgently needed to know.

Tu ci hai detto che la menzogna suprema è quando identifichiamo il «mistero» con la morte, con l'inevitabilità del male, con la desolazione. È una menzogna perché è la negazione della possibilità di cambiamento? Della possibilità del cambiamento, certo. È il demoniaco, è la diabolicità.

Back at the house. How could you end a whole era and bury a century of life and be home before suppertime? Big Angel could not reconcile himself to this dirty deal they had all been dealt. Death. What a ridiculous practical joke. Every old person gets the punch line that the kids are too blind to see. All the striving, lusting, dreaming, suffering, working, hoping, yearning, mourning, suddenly revealed itself to be an accelerating countdown to nightfall.

Don Pepe was a Mexican man: a fatalist. He meant to impart much more than comfort. He meant that all good things would also end. All joy would crumble. And death would visit each and every one of them. He meant that regimes and ancient orders and cultures would all collapse. The world as we know it becomes a new world overnight.

Big Angel was late to his own mother's funeral.

Miguel Angel," he said, "It isn't hard to die. Everybody does it. Even flies do it. Everyone here is doing it. We're all terminal." He had a tear in his eye; Big Angel could see it brimming. "Your schedule is just different from mine.

Somewhere in that vast tapestry of interwoven odors, Angel was sure he could smell the dead. Not their bodies, but their souls. His newest theory was that the dead came as ghosts in sudden finger-thin wafts of perfume or cigarette or hair's sweet soap scents when it was drying in the sun…