Quotes About Death

She was thinking of many things, for to her the thread of life was not broken by Death, but kept winding along calmly and evenly.

The fear of death came over him gradually. It was as if somebody were striking his heart a powerful blow with the fist from below.

I am not afraid of this devil!" he thought of Death. "I simply feel sorry for my life. It is a splendid thing, no matter what the pessimists say about it. What if they were to hang a pessimist? Ah, I feel sorry for life, very sorry!

The curtain which through eternity has hidden the mystery of life and the mystery of death was pushed aside by a sacrilegious hand, and the mysteries ceased to be mysteries—yet they remained incomprehensible, like the Truth written in a foreign tongue.

Sanki ayn? baÅŸlang?çs?z ve bitimsiz günün içindeydik, kah karanl?k kah parlak, ama yine anla??lmaz, yine kör. Ve hiçbirimiz korkmuyorduk ölümden, çünkü ölümün ne olduÄŸunu anlayacak durumda deÄŸildik.

If life on death row is safer than life on the streets, it's hard to believe that the fear of execution is a driving force in a criminal's calculus.

Be sure the safest rule is that we should not dare to live in any scene in which we dare not die.

Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, Let us both go to law: I will prosecute you.—Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do. Said the mouse to the cur, Such a trial, dear Sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath. I'll be judge, I'll be jury, Said cunning old Fury: I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.

If we ever do achieve freedom from most of today's diseases, or even complete freedom from disease, we will perhaps terminate by drying out and blowing away on a light breeze, but we will still die.

Death is not a sudden-all-at-once affair; cells go down in sequence, one by one. You can, if you like, recover great numbers of them many hours after the lights have gone out, and grow them out in cultures. It takes hours, even days, before the irreversible word finally gets around to all the provinces.

I saw sunrises fade and burn among fleets of sparks. The moon blossomed like a lily carved of bone... The Death of the Astronaut, page 390.

Life and Death The living are but passers-by, And those are going home who die. The sky and earth are hotels just For all to grieve over age-old dust. The Moon Goddess lives long in vain; The sacred tree's cut down with pain. The bleached bones can nor speak nor sing. Could green pines feel the warmth of spring? Ancestors and posterity, Don't prize but sigh for vanity.

The living is a passing traveller The dead, a man come home.

One could argue that it's romantic to die for love. Of course, then you're dead and unable to take that honeymoon trip to the Alps with all the other fashionable young couples, which is a shame.

In them, she saw the sham of her life laid out like a book, the foolish belief that she, that anyone, could escape the consequences of this world, could flee from death. That was the deceit. The true serpent in the garden.

Dead bodies are such trouble," Evie said with a little sigh, and Mabel had to turn her head away so as not to laugh.

All morning, Spence has been a well-oiled machine of activity. Everyone doing her bit, quietly and efficiently. It's strange how deliberate people are after a death. All the indecision suddenly vanishes into clear, defined moments--changing the linens, choosing a dress or a hymn, the washing up, the muttering of prayers. All the small, simple, conscious acts of living a sudden defense against the dying we do every day.

It's strange how deliberate people are after a death. All the indecision suddenly vanishes into clear, defined moments - changing the linens, choosing a dress or a hymn, the washing up, the muttering of prayers. All the small, simple, conscious acts of living a sudden defense against the dying we do every day.

I think about dying every day, because I can't stop thinking about living.

No, instead it is the beastly Cecily Temple who answers me. Dead, dear Cecily, or as I affectionately refer to her in the privacy of my mind, She Who Inflicts Misery Simply by Breathing.

It's funny. I used to feel that I wouldn't care if I died. I just kept throwing myself at life, hoping I'd hit a bull's-eye eventually. I thought death would be a relief from all that feeling. A relief not to have all that pain. Not to care so much,' Evie said.

It is all I can do not to confide to the girl closest to me: If I should die during tea - asphyxiated by my own corset - please do not let them bury me in such a hideous dress or I shall come back to haunt you.

We are the dead. We are the keepers of the stories. We hold the history of blood and promises. We are speaking. Are you listening? Will you hear?

Why must we die when everything within us was born to live?