Quotes About Death

Creostus's booming laugh leaves gooseflesh upon my arms. He paces close to me. "Jealous, Priestess? Do you wish to compete for my affections? I should like to see that." "I'm sure you would. But you will die first and so let us journey to Philon, if you please.

The dead became the living until the living became the dead.

There was nothing but the night and the fire and the ancient, lasting story of good versus evil, of life and death hanging in the balance. It was a thread woven through all of humankind: this need for story to explain the unexplainable, to comfort the hurting, to promise that no one was alone.

So naturally I'm fascinated with the phenomenon of the NDE, of 'going over.

Twinkle Twinkle little star. You are nothing. You've been dead for a thousand years.

She had told Dr. Orne that Plath "took something that was mine—that death was mine!

Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind, in the commonplaces of the asylum where the cracked mirror or my own selfish death outstared me ... I tapped my own head; it was glass, an inverted bowl. It's a small thing to rage inside your own bowl. At first it was private. Then it was more than myself.

This life wasn't all there was; there was more, much more, and when people spoke of death as passing they were exactly right, because the spirit passed on to that other level of existence. Knowing that was the most comforting thing she could imagine.

Hurry, Hector urged, and his voice changed as his power surged, his tone and cadence sliding into the rhythm that said he was seeing the future. Battle is in the air. I smell it. I can almost touch it. Death is coming Death is coming for us. With a click, the call disconnected.

Why is it so important that you know right now who he is? If he lives, you can ask him. If he dies—" She halted abruptly.

Alas, the question was too big for a man in the process of dying, alone and far from home.

He was floating with his head down, blood streaming from a bullet hole in the back of his neck.

I have chosen the way of my death, which is something few of us are privileged to do.

Power was always with the others, with the death-dealers and those who had obediently evolved the tunnel vision it takes to organize atrocity. The room was already iced in nuclear winter.

In a great little book that he had the moral courage to publish during the First World War, Sigmund Freud traces physical heroism back to the fact that every man of intelligence knows that he must some day die, but that no man, in his innermost soul, ever believes in his own death.

Just as Adam stole the fruit of a forbidden tree and caused all within him to die, Jesus died on a barren tree and thus became its fruit that all in him might live.

Has there ever been a society which has died of dissent? Several have died of conformity in our lifetime.

If from society we learn to live, solitude should teach us how to die.

Death is losing its terror. It is the emergency exit for a world that is becoming more frightening death ever was.

Now there is a society where the funeral industry got completely out of control.

Surrealism will usher you into death, which is a secret society. It will glove your hand, burying therein the profound M with which the word Memory begins.

Alienation is a form of living death. It is the acid of despair that dissolves society.

All of society is built to prop up that lie, the whole world a big, noisy puppet show meant to distract us from the fact that at the end, you'll die, and you'll probably be alone.

We study there a lot because... what other choice does society give us, right? It's Starbucks or death, sometimes.