Quotes About Death

They had chopped wood here too; then they were gone. Gone to the fields, the small towns, the cities – where they died. There was always news coming back to the quarter about someone who had been killed or who had been sent to prison for killing someone else: Snowball, stabbed to death in a nightclub in Port Allen; Claudee, killed by a woman in New Orleans; Smitty, sent to the state penitentiary for manslaughter. And there were others who did not go anywhere but simply died slower

I know you are here to kill me. Shoot, coward, you are only going to kill a man.

There are no boundaries in this struggle to the death. We cannot be indifferent to what happens anywhere in the world, for a victory by any country over imperialism is our victory; just as any country's defeat is a defeat for all of us.

Nothing expresses Kafka's innermost sense of self more profoundly than his lapidary definition of "writing as a form of prayer": he was a writer. Not a man who wrote, but one to whom writing was the only form of being, the only means of defying death in life.

Podemos tener tanto miedo a la muerte que nunca vivimos, tanto miedo al fracaso que nunca nos arriesgamos, tanto miedo al dolor que nunca descubrimos cuán fuertes somos realmente.

Chiar în vârtejul relelelor daÈ›i sufletelor voastre veselia cea de toate zilele, c?ci pentru morÈ›i belÈ™ugul aurului nu mai are preÈ›.

Isten nem azért van, mondja nagymama, hogy könnyítsen a halálon. Hogy az könnyebb legyen. Hanem hogy legyen értelme. És akkor van értelme, ha az Å' halálának is van értelme.

Freud described eros as the life instinct, doing battle with thanatos, the death instinct.

Is the sorrow of death the same as the sorrow of knowing the pain in a child's future? What about the melancholy of music? Is it the same as the melancholy of a summer dusk? Is the loss I was feeling for my father the same I would have felt for a man better-fit to the world, a man who might have thrown a baseball with me or taken me out in the mornings to fish? Both we call grief. I don't think we have words for our feelings any more than we have words for our thoughts.

Walt, examining Chris's record collection, said, "You have four different recordings of Carousel." "It's my favorite thing on earth." "Is that because it says that people die but true love lasts forever?" "I … Maybe. I thought I just liked the music." To Tom, behind Walt's back, she mouthed, "How'd he get so smart?

Of the eighty-one people who had been trapped by the early autumn snow at the eastern edge of the Sierra, thirty-six had died and forty-five had survived. No one remained at the high camps. For the Donner Party, the journey was finished.

A whole tree of lightning stood in the sky. She kept looking out the window, suffused with the warmth from the fire and with the pity and beauty and power of her death. The thunder rolled.

But the guilt of outliving those you love is justly to be borne, she thought. Outliving is something we do to them. The fantasies of dying could be no stranger than the fantasies of living. Surviving is perhaps the strangest fantasy of them all.

She felt as though in death her father had been asked to bear the weight of that raised lid himself, and hold it up by lying there, the same way he'd lain on the hospital bed and counted the minutes and the hours to make his life go by. She stood by the coffin as she had by his bed, waiting it out with him.

All men die in solitude; all values are degraded in a state of misery: that is what Shakespeare tells me

Je meurs, vous entendez, je veux dire que je meurs, je n'arrive pas à le dire, je ne fais que de la littérature.

Assassin! Misérable! Tu m'as tuée et maintenant tu ne veux pas que je m'empoisonne!

dve stvari su za mene neprihvatljive: biti ro?en i onda umreti. samo to nisam tražio, i to nikako ne prihvatam.

Les morts sont plus nombreux que les vivants. Leur nombre augemente. Les vivants sont rares.

The fear of death was my truest shield. Now the walls have collapsed. And here I am, defenseless, exposed to the blazing inferno of life, and in the freezing grip of despair. I wanted life and life has hurled itself at me. It's crippling me, killing me. Why didn't I have the sense to welcome resignation? All my old scars have opened, my wounds are bleeding again. Thousands of knives are driving into my flesh.

C'est pour cela que les jeunes se suicident ou qu'on les tue. Ainsi on les cloue dans leur jeunesse pour toujours, dans les panoplies de l'éternité.

You'll say to yourself, I'm just an old man who is scared of life, but even more scared of dying. So I'm keeping drunk and hanging on to life at any price, and what of it?

And I took a seat in the grandstand of philosophical detachment to fall asleep observing the cannibals do their death dance.

As it is, I will always be a stranger who never feels at home, who does not really want and is not really wanted, who can never belong, who must always be a little in love with death.