Quotes About Death

They walked over to the body, thinking that perhaps they could still save the man's life. They couldn't believe that there wasn't some way to help the man. It was the natural act of men who have not accepted death until they have touched it and turned it over and made plans to bury it or leave it there for the jungle to bury in an hour of quick growth.

What a dreadful surprise," said Beatty. "For everyone nowadays knows, absolutely is certain, that nothing will ever happen to me. Others die, I go on. There are no consequences and no responsibilities. Except that there are. But let's not talk about them, eh? By the time the consequences catch up with you, it's too late, isn't it, Montag?

had begun to cry, not at death but at the thought of not crying at death, a silly empty man

There was a silence of the tomb yard. Sexed but sexless, the robots. Named but unnamed, and borrowing from humans everything but humanity, the robots stared at the nailed lids of their labelled F.O.B. boxes, in a death that was not even a death, for there had never been a life.

I don't want any Halloween parties here tomorrow. Don't want anyone saying anything sweet about me; I said it all in my time and my pride. I've tasted every victual and danced every dance; now there's one last tart I haven't bit on, one tune I haven't whistled. But I'm not afraid. I'm truly curious. Death won't get a crumb by my mouth I won't keep and savor. So don't you worry over me. Now, all of you go, and let me find my sleep...

Ha muerto. El corazón. —Lo lamento. —¿Cómo se siente? —Hathaway no quería que nos sintiéramos mal. Nos dijo que esto ocurriría en cualquier momento, y no quería que lloráramos. No nos enseñó a llorar. No quería que supiéramos hacerlo. Según él, nada peor puede ocurrirle a un hombre que saber cómo estar solo, y cómo estar triste, y ponerse a llorar.

Somehow, irresistibly, the prime thing was: nothing mattered. Life in the end seemed a prank of such size you could only stand off at this end of the corridor to note its meaningless length and its quite unnecessary height, a mountain built to such ridiculous immensities you were dwarfed in its shadow and mocking of its pomp. So with death this near he thought numbly but purely upon a billion vanities, arrivals, departures, idiot excursions of boy, boy-man, man and old-man goat.

Death makes everything else sad. But death itself only scares. If there wasn't death, all other things wouldn't get tainted.

She's dead. Let's talk about someone alive, goodness' sake.

it was suddenly so very wrong that he had begun to cry, not at death but at the thought of not crying at death, a silly empty man near a silly empty woman, while the hungry snake made her still more empty.

Ten minutes after death a man's a speck of black dust. Let's not quibble over individuals with memoriams. Forget them. Burn them all, burn everything. Fire is bright and fire is clean.

Y para eso escribo, escribo, escribo, al mediodía o a las tres de la madrugada. Para no estar muerto.

They peered in at the merry-go-round which lay under a dry rattle and roar of wind-tumbled oak trees. Its horses, goats, antelopes, zebras, speared through their spines with brass javelins, hung contorted as in a death rictus, asking mercy with their fright-colored eyes, seeking revenge with their panic-colored teeth.

If I fell from here, it would surely kill me." He let a pebble drop. Moments later it clicked on the rocks below. "The Lord would never forgive me." He tossed another pebble. "It wouldn't be suicide, would it, if I did it out of Love …?

Death loves death, not life. Dying people love to know that others die with them. It is a comfort to learn you are not alone in the kiln, in the grave.

I remember the newspapers dying like huge moths. No one wanted them back. No one missed them. And the Government, seeing how advantageous it was to have people reading only about passionate lips and the fist in the stomach, circled the situation with your fire-eaters.

It's a long way back to sunset, a far way on to dawn, so you summon all the fool things of your life, the stupid lovely things done with people known so very well who are now so very dead...

Christ was not like that. Even as an infant, he had come for a purpose. Knowing that it would mean his bloody death on the cross, he said, "I have come to do your will, God!

A violent death would not be man's way to victory, but it was God's plan and our Lord carried it out perfectly.

Campbell surmised "a magical, wonderful accord" growing between the hunter and the hunted, as if they were locked in a "mystical, timeless" cycle of death, burial, and resurrection. Their art—the paintings on cave walls—and oral literature gave form to the impulse we now call religion.

Campbell was fascinated by how this symbol was seized upon by the world's great religions as the revelation of eternal truth—that from death comes life, or as he put it: "From sacrifice, bliss.

Myths are stories of our search through the ages for truth, for meaning, for significance. We all need to tell our story and to understand our story. We all need to understand death and to cope with death, and we all need help in our passages from birth to life and then to death. We need for life to signify, to touch the eternal, to understand the mysterious, to find out who we are.

Over the lives borne from under the shadow of death there seems to fall the shadow of madness.

I remember my youth and the feeling that will never come back any more—the feeling that I could last for ever, outlast the sea, the earth, and all men; the deceitful feeling that lures us on to joys, to perils, to love, to vain effort—to death; the triumphant conviction of strength, the heat of life in the handful of dust, the glow in the heart that with every year grows dim, grows cold, grows small, and expires—and expires, too soon, too soon—before life itself.