Quotes About Death

And as it went my tortured soul (...) That all about me swirled the dust. Deep in the earth I rested now, Cool is its hands upon the brow And soft its breast beneath the head Of one who is so gladly dead.

GENNARO Paise distrutte, creature sperze, fucilazione… E quanta muorte… 'E lloro e 'e nuoste… E quante n'aggio viste… (Atterrito dalla visione che gli ritorna alla memoria più viva con tutti i suoi particolari) 'E muorte so' tutte eguale…»

Lo único que puedo asegurar es que en ninguna ocasión, ni siquiera en los más críticos bretes, he visto, conforme suele contarse, pasar ante mí mi vida entera como si fuera una película, lo que siempre es un alivio, porque bastante malo es de por sí morirse para encima morirse viendo cine español.

Sickness, insanity and death were the angels that surrounded my cradle and they have followed me throughout my life.

From the moment of my birth, the angels of anxiety, worry, and death stood at my side, followed me out when I played, followed me in the sun of springtime and in the glories of summer. They stood at my side in the evening when I closed my eyes, and intimidated me with death, hell, and eternal damnation. And I would often wake up at night and stare widely into the room: Am I in Hell?

Your face encompasses the beauty of the whole earth. Your lips, as red as ripening fruit, gently part as if in pain. It is the smile of a corpse. Now the hand of death touches life. The chain is forged that links the thousand families that are dead to the thousand generations to come.

From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that ia eternity.

The sea – it is as incomprehensible as existence – it is incomprehensible as death – as eternal as longing.

From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity.

We know this apodictic rock beneath our feet. That dogmatic sun above our heads. The world of dreams, the agony of love and the foresight of death. That is all we know. And all we need to know? Challenge that statement.

Love can defeat that nameless terror. Loving one another, we take the sting from death. Loving our mysterious blue planet, we resolve riddles and dissolve all enigmas in contingent bliss.

Love can defeat that nameless terror. Loving one another, we take the sting from death.

The tragedy of modern war is not so much that the young men die but that they die fighting each other--instead of their real enemies back home in the capitals.

Where life is there is death, reasons the vulture, and where there's death there's hope.

The industrial way of life leads to the industrial way of death. From Shiloh to Dachau, from Antietam to Stalingrad, from Hiroshima to Vietnam and Afghanistan, the great specialty of industry and technology has been the mass production of human corpses.

When life is cheap death is rich.

I suppose each of us has his own fantasy of how he wants to die. I would like to go out in a blaze of glory, myself, or maybe simply disappear someday, far out in the heart of the wilderness I love, all by myself, alone with the Universe and whatever God may happen to be looking on. Disappear - and never return. That's my fantasy.

There is a certain animal vitality in most of us which carries us through any trouble but the absolutely overwhelming. Only a fool has no sorrow, only an idiot has no grief - but then only a fool and an idiot will let grief and sorrow ride him down into the grave.

Life is a bitch, his dark companion said–and then you die. Not so cried Henry! Life is a glorious shining and splendid adventure, and then you die.

What do we know? What do we really know? He licks his dried cracked lips. We know this apodictic rock beneath our feet. That dogmatic sun above our heads. The world of dreams, the agony of love and the foreknowledge of death. That is all we know. And all we need to know? Challenge that statement. I challenge that statement. With what? I don't know.

The plow of mortality drives through the stubble, turns over rocks and sod and weeds to cover the old, the worn-out, the husks, shells, empty seedpods and sapless roots, clearing the field for the next crop. A ruthless, brutal process—but clean and beautiful.

We know this apodictic rock beneath our feet. That dogmatic sun above our heads. The world of dreams, the agony of love and the foreknowledge of death. That is all we know.

Yet the manner of death he fears does not sound bad to me; to me it seems like a decent, clean way of taking off, surely better than the slow rot in a hospital oxygen tent with rubber tubes stuck up your nose, prick, asshole, with blood transfusions and intravenous feeding, bedsores and bedpans and bad-tempered nurses' aides—the whole nasty routine to which most dying men, in our time, are condemned.

Death is release, if you've lived all right.