Quotes About Death

Because that's how you become a bounty hunter. It's not that you like the killing work. That's just to begin with. It's that, in the end, you don't mind it. That's where vengeance leads. It leads to your own death even though you don't realize it. You're dead inside, except you're still walking around." Some

I know cigarettes can kill & wonder why she wants to die.

It is a mere consolation to the timid to imagine that philosophy has died. The fact of the matter is quite to the contrary. Philosophy will be the last of human things; perhaps the efficient impulse of the end.

Philosophy, in its longing to rationalize, formalize, define, delimit, to terminate enigma and uncertainty, to co-operate wholeheartedly with the police, is nihilistic in the ultimate sense that it strives for the immobile perfection of death. But creativity cannot be brought to an end that is compatible with power, for unless life is extinguished, control must inevitably break down. We possess art lest we perish of the truth.

God is nowhere to be found, yet there is still so much light! Light that dazzles and maddens; crisp, ruthless light. Space echoes like an immense tomb, yet the stars still burn. Why does the sun take so long to die? Or the moon retain such fidelity to the Earth? Where is the new darkness? The greatest of all unknowings? Is death itself shy of us?

Without programmed cell death, the bonds that bind cells in complex multicellular organisms might never have evolved.

Wataru Tsurumi's Complete Manual of Suicide.

It don't mean a damned thing," Colonel Parker was rumored to have remarked on Elvis's death. "It's just like when he was away in the army.

No." Her eyes were like chips of stone. "He died because the Telestines have enslaved us. He died for humanity." He

Dead men couldn't fight. Only living men, fuming at injustice and enraged at the loss of their fellows, fought, and won wars.

Cell 14-D, in the infamous Hole, is said to be always colder than the other D Block cells, even when the weather is warm. Stories have been told of a prisoner locked in 14-D who screamed all night long. He said that a creature with glowing red eyes was trying to kill him. The next morning, he was found dead.

The trigger has been squeezed, the deathly mechanism has been enabled, the fatal course of a bullet has been set. No amount of bleating or praying or wailing of cajoling can halt it or stall it or call it back.

Life, death, change, they happened most at the edge of things: where forest meets clearing, air meets water.

A battle, shield wall to shield wall. Linden wood to linden wood. She imagined meeting a man the size of Forthere, huge with battle rage, stinking with it; dogs dripping and snarling at her legs, her arms. Sharp swords cleaving down, splintering shields, crushing skulls, slicing off faces. Men sworn to follow their lord or die. Victory or death, no middle ground.

Hild faced him influencing, because Edwin was like a dog: show fear and he would chose you down. But then she broke her gaze. To challenge an uneasy before his men was to invite death.

Being capable of using violence to defend yourself did not make you a bad person. Being dead because you couldn't did not make you a good one.

Her sister wanted to cry, but she was a woman grown. No one must see her tears, not even her women, for fear of bringing shame on the family name. There was nothing Hild could do. This was Hereswith's wyrd; it had been since Cwenburh's death.

We drove in silence. The only things we knew about each other revolved around the death of a man who had been her friend and I didn't want to talk about that, didn't want to think about murder and men with money.

She would have to remember that those who weren't used to her, or who hadn't been around her for a while, saw the legend first: twice uncanny. Wielder of wyrd, dealer of death, the king's seer.

Perhaps there was no magic for faling off your own mount and dying alone and unmasked.

Recklessness killed seers as surely as it killed gesiths.

I know police work and death, I understand the intricacies of diplomacy and the strange sharp angles where performance art and outlaws, tattoos and high society meet and mingle. I also knew what she didn't: that stalking a professional killer is not a game, not a hobby you can learn on the weekend. Not when the stakes are your life.

This hand can birth children. This hand can make music. This hand can kill you.

The lives and deaths of characters in stories and poems, however tragic, help us to learn about the world and - if we are brave enough - to change it.