Quotes About Death

Encounters with death and danger are only adventures to the survivors.

I dreamed I called D.A.F. de Sade on the phone and asked him, Jesus told me that he and you agree on at least one thing and it explains freedom. What is that one thing? Quite simple, he replied, don't be afraid of the Cross. The fear of death is the beginning of slavery. And the line went dead with a triumphant click like a barred door falling open.

Later, alas, when Mr. Wright learned that other patients did not respond so favorably to Krebiozen, and that doctors had begun to consider the chemical worthless against cancer, he became depressed and worried. His tumors began growing again, he returned to his bed, and he died.

On the other side of the dark coin of psychosomatic synergy: a South Sea shaman points a death bone at a tribesman who has offended him. The victim receives the best possible medical care from sympathetic doctors, who don't believe in Black Magic, but he shortly dies anyway. It appears that the unfortunate man died of the belief that death bones can kill people.4 ~•~ 4Rossi, op. cit. p 9-12.

I've got a tombstone disposition and a graveyard mind I'm a bad motherfucker and I don't mind dyin

Strange how everyone tried to disguise truth with nonsense. Like the slang for death: kicking the bucket, wiped out, snuffed, wasted, blown away. The light touch to dispel the heavy fear.

I'VE never seen such a look of mortal agony on a human face before. She screamed quite a bit before she died, and the last shriek was forever frozen on her face.

I'll remedy the deficiency. I'll be Satan, I'll be Death. Look into my bony skull sockets and see if you can read the secrets of the eyes that are not there. Read my riddle—why does a death's head always grin?

It's a death sentence," Nicko said. "She's accusing us of everything but stopping up the royal sink.

That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened the next tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss . . .

Smiling the boy fell dead.

I was ever a fighter, so---one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore, and bade me creep past.

Have you found your life distasteful? My life did and does smack sweet. Was your youth of pleasure wasteful? Mine I save and hold complete. Do your joys with age diminish? When mine fail me, I'll complain. Must in death your daylight finish? My sun sets to rise again.

Just when we are safest, there's a sunset touch, A fancy from a flower-bell, someone's death, ... The grand Perhaps!

I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around...

We must become friends of despair if we are to be drawn above it to genuine and heartfelt hope. Far from being an exercise in morbidity or arrogance, a deepening acquaintance with our death and with the vanity of human wishes is our worldly hearts a needed path to perfect health (61).

On the abyss's edge we slide and soon will plunge head first; our life is given us with our death – and we, when we are born, begin to die. Without an ounce of pity, death strikes all things, brings to nothing stars, and suns are quenched by her cold breath – destroyer of the universe.

Death that makes nature quake with dread! today we are gods, tomorrow dust, creatures of poverty and pride, today hope fondly flatters us, tomorrow – man, where are you now? Your hours have barely fled away into the pit of chaos, your time fades like a dream at the new day.

That is not wistfulness or sentimentality. It is grasping the hard fact that time runs in only one direction, that we have already died a thousand deaths and will die a thousand more, and that there is no remedy for it but love, though we are sure we have never seen love except in the rearview mirror, in the sad and tawdry puddle at the bottom of the glass

People often die from love, and this is a secret we all keep, even from ourselves.

Mrs. Bartello opened the screen wider, her eyes bunching with sorrow. "I'm sorry. You don't know. I'm sorry. Donna passed away." Holman felt himself slow as if he had been drugged; as if his heart and breath and the blood in his veins were winding down like a phonograph record when you pulled the plug. First Richie, now Donna. He didn't say anything, and Mrs. Bartello's sorrowful eyes grew knowing. She

Pike tapped Jon's leg, and Jon rolled on, cruising back to their cars. Everything moved quickly after their brief reconnoiter, which was how Pike liked it. Speed was good. In armed confrontations, speed was the difference between life and death. Cole

Jonna Lester slapped hard at the couch, then threw the glass pipe to the floor. She stamped both feet. Mad. "Life really sucks." "That's true," I said. "But think of it this way." She squinted at me, and I glanced toward the bathroom. "Death sucks worse.

Pike said, "This is dim mak. That's Chinese. It means death touch." Dim mak was the dark side of acupuncture; in one, pressure points were used to heal, in the other, to damage.