Quotes About Death

We live in grief for having left the womb, for having left the teat, then school, then home. In my case, it was leaving marriages, and the death of my wife.

My dad died of a stroke.

It happens. Life (or death) taps you on the shoulder, interrupts what you're doing, and suddenly you find that nobody has been bothering you but yourself.

The mark of an immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of a mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one.

We must accept the fact of the presence of the flesh (Rom. 7:25c), but must refuse its influence in our lives as a power cancelled by Christ's death; and we must regard that potential for evil as an unwelcome residue which we are to mortify by faith in Christ's death, and keep it near the fringe of our lives until we are finally separated from it at death.

Crisis - that is, the serious encounter of a man with exactly that which now threatens his own life, with that which represents, signifies, and warns of his own death - is always terrible, wonderful, eventually inescapable, saving and holy.

Anxieties do not end in death. Anxieties end in God.

What is involved in such issues, in the end, is learning to respect the freedom of the dead to be dead; honoring the dead in their status as dead people, and refraining from harassment of the dead by refusing to mythologize the dead or enshrine them. What is at stake is recognition by those in grief of the right of the dead to be regarded mortally, which is to say, to be treated humanly in death.

Whatever happened I would not, I dared not, become a hostage to grief. Anthony had been my sweet companion for seventeen years, but grieving for myself because he had died was neither tribute nor benefit to him and should not become the purpose or the focus of my existence. …If I allowed this, the power of death would not only have claimed Anthony in the grave but would also seize me – prematurely, or without sufficient pretext.

People are deceived and drawn on step by step, till war, death and destruction are upon them.

Only the debris of wreckage, and not much of that, was left behind by the sharks who fed on tragedy: the fishermen, too, mourned the death of a living child.

Everyone dies. Not everyone really lives.

When brought to meaning, all importance becomes small, as in death, all life seems nothing. Knowing is destroyed by thinking, not destroyed but sterilized; distilled into knowledge. Thinking, the processing of knowing to knowledge.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slideInto a lover's head!"O mercy!" to myself I cried,"If Lucy should be dead!"

What though the radiance which was once so bright Be not forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;Grief not, rather find, Strength in what remains behind, In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be, In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of Human suffering, In the faith that looks through death In years that bring philophic mind.

The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.

A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?

The good die first.

And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine A being breathing thoughtful breath A traveler betwixt life and death The reason firm the temperate will Endurance Foresight Strength and skill

I have slept Weeping, and weeping I have waked; my tears Have flow'd as if my body were not such As others are, and I could never die.

Hunger, revenge, to sleep are petty foes, But only death the jealous eyes can close.

Those who welcome death have only tried it from the ears up.

Old Dan must have known he was dying. Just before he drew his last breath, he opened his eyes and looked at me. Then with one last sigh, and a feeble thump of his tail, his friendly gray eyes closed forever.

heart. As he looked around at the agency Indians, dependent, destitute, spiritless, it was clearer than ever that an agency offered no life to him and no prospect for the return of Hawk. The people might be able to live here, he didn't know. Hawk would never come to him here, and he would die. And until his death, live gutted of spirit. He walked his pony and felt in its hooves the pulse of the drum, tapping the earth.