Quotes About Death

You die twice. Once when your heart stops beating and again when your name is spoken for the last time.

People react in such complicated ways to any death, but particularly to the death of a parent, because a lot of what one feels is about oneself and the sense that nothing now stands between that self and dying. You have now become the older generation. I believe that the closer and more loving the relationship is, the deeper but simpler the grief. Of my father's children, my brother had the hardest time

Life is hard. After all, it kills you.

Wouldn't it be great if people could get to live suddenly as often as they die suddenly?

Death always leaves one singer to mourn.

The road to death is a long march beset with all evils, and the heart fails little by little at each new terror, the bones rebel at each step, the mind sets up its own bitter resistance and to what end? The barriers sink one by one, and no covering of the eyes shuts out the landscape of disaster, nor the sight of crimes committed there.

There are parts of Texas where a fly lives ten thousand years and a man can't die soon enough. Time gets strange there from too much sky, too many miles from crack to crease in the flat surface of the land.

The old man is spread out on the worm buffet and

watched in horror until Walter Cronkite finally announced the news that Kennedy was dead. The boys didn't try to argue about the stupidity of the ancient Hebrews again.

He didn't want to die. He had hardly begun to live.

He lived long enough to give the chaplain his name—John Goetchius—but died before he could tell the kind man where his home was.

After the woods our good cheer was quelled by the faint first whiff of a real battlefield, a gagging combination of shit and gunpowder, gas and blood, decaying flesh and muddy rot.

I immediately understood that all our training—the rehearsal of thoughts and actions, the merging of individual identities into a coordinated and interdependent force—was done in anticipation of this very moment, to stanch the fundamental impulse to flee from such terror. We smelled that death—perhaps the death of civilization—and we kept moving toward it, thereby becoming something more and less than human.

I died when I was little more than two years old, on June 13, 1919, there in the Signal Corps lofts at Camp Vail, New Jersey. One week after Congress passed the Nineteenth Amendment, which would eventually recognize the right of women to vote. Pigeons do not vote, but as a female being I felt a degree of investment in the fortunes of other females.

Dying," she said in her last week, "is normal. It's as normal as being born.

If fairness were the rule, the good would not die young, as Coryn, the king of the Great Tree, had.

Since an emotion's an announcement of value, in this society of the death (of values) emotions moved like zombies through humans.

One day she yelled, You're always naked except for that bunch of skulls around your neck. In which maggots're living. That you never take off. And you're odoriferous. In a bad way. You think that death's sexy, that's why you stink most of the time; of rot and foul, fetid fur, but you smell worst when you're about to come.

The world was cruel and sudden. This he knew for sure. Relax for a moment, breathe in the scent of a rose, rest in the shade, pet a dog, take a sip of lemonade, fall in love with a dreamy-eyed girl or a haunted faced man, and you are just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Buzzing around the lemonade, you'll find flies. Follow the flies and you'll find death.

The world was cruel and sudden. This he knew for sure. Relax for a moment, breathe in the scent of a rose, rest in the shade, pet a dog, take a sip of lemonade, fall in love with a dreamy-eyed girl or a haunted-faced man, and you are just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Buzzing around the lemonade, you'll find flies. Follow the flies and you'll find death.

For us there is little to say. After all, we know that death belongs to life, that it is unavoidable and comes when it wants.

What he means here is that he had thought his sons would die in the war and had readied himself for the loss. His faith in preparation is central: Freud's barely submerged premise is that death is something to be mastered, something that one prepares for or practices. "If you would endure life," he wrote in one of his essays, "be prepared for death.

He had always thought that death was black nothingness, but he had not counted on being awake for it.

3,117 people had lost their lives in the flood. And the king had missed breakfast