Quotes About Death

We didn't want you to die by yourself." "What difference would it make?

I verily beleive [sic] Page that I shall die soon, and yet I can give no other reason for it but that I am tired with living. At this moment when I am writing I am scarcely sensible that I exist.

More men die of jealousy than of cancer.

In this embrace of suffering, even unto death, Bilbo is encapsulating the whole idea of life being a cross that we are called to carry willingly and indeed enthusiastically. Life is not about the pursuit of creature comforts and taking the paths of least resistance. It is about Love, which can be defined as willingly laying down our lives for others.

Killing for sport is the perfect type of that pure evil for which metaphysicians have sometimes sought. Most wicked deeds are done because the doer proposes some good to himself ... [but] the killer for sport has no such comprehensible motive. He prefers death to life, darkness to light. He gets nothing except the satisfaction of saying, Something that wanted to live is dead. There is that much less vitality, consciousness, and, perhaps, joy in the universe. I am the Spirit that Denies.

But death on the page is just a typo, I said: You can't say for example, She is dead–"she" no longer is. You can't say for example, She was dead–death itself, a condition coterminous with eternity, renders the past tense inaccurate.

If I kill you, you'll be awake, you'll be facing me, and you'll be armed.

Anya: I don't understand how this all happens. How we go through this. I mean, I knew her, and then she's- There's just a body, and I don't understand why she just can't get back in it and not be dead anymore. It's stupid. It's mortal and stupid. And-and Xander's crying and not talking, and-and I was having fruit punch, and I thought, well, Joyce will never have any more fruit punch ever, and she'll never have eggs, or yawn or brush her hair, not ever, and no one will explain to me why.

You do not want a war. You have known violence, you have suffered loss, but you have seen nothing of war. War is not just the business of death; it is the anti-thesis of life. Hope, tortured and flayed, reason, dismembered, grinning at its limbs in its lap. Decency, raped to death... You will be a murderer and more.

That wouldn't be a first, now would it? Jean. Jean Grey is dead, Agent. Yeah, that'll last.

They come. Sooner than I'd thought, more than I'd even begun to fear. They come looking for death. And Death is psyched to see 'em.

Live each day as if it were your last, 'cause I'm gonna kill you but I'm not super-good w/schedules

War is not just the business of death, it is the antitheses of life.

A family is essentially a field of stories, each intricately connected. Death does not sever the connection; rather, the story expands as it continues unwinding inter-dimensionally

There are always flowers, Love cries, or blood. Someone is always leaving By exile, death, or heartbreak. The heart is a fist. It pockets prayer or holds rage.

But come here, fear I am alive and you are so afraid of dying

WASHING MY MOTHER'S BODY I never got to wash my mother's body when she died. I return to take care of her in memory. That's how I make peace when things are left undone. I go back and open the door. I step in to make my ritual. To do what should have been done, what needs to be fixed so that my spirit can move on, So that the children and grandchildren are not caught in a knot Of regret they do not understand.

She thinks of the 4 a.m. lonelinesses that have folded her up like death, discordant, without logical and beautiful conclusion.

And we go on, keep giving birth and watch ourselves die, over and over. And the ground spinning beneath us goes on talking.

There was a Greek philosopher who taught that, of all things, not to have been born is the sweetest state. But I believe sleep is the sweetest state. You're dead, yet alive. There's no sensation so exquisite.

There is something female about being dead.

whatever you do, with whom you do it or whether you do it alone, and when, and how, and why, to what mysterious end—it's balanced against nothing, against Death and forgetting. You balanced against oblivion.

Bullshit! Li-ar! Your mother and father are dead like everybody else. Everybody is dead.

That I was sleeping at a time when my husband was dying is so horrible a thought, I can't confront it.