Quotes About Death

It's like a lion at the door;And when the door begins to crack,It's like a stick across your back;And when your back begins to smart,It's like a penknife in your heart;And when your heart begins to bleed,You're dead, and dead, and dead, indeed.

"Who saw him die?""I," said the fly,"With my little eye,I saw him die."

"Who killed Cock Robin?""I," said the sparrow,"With my bow and arrow,I killed Cock Robin."

Cosmic upheaval is not so moving as a little child pondering the death of a sparrow in the corner of a barn.

Los psiquiatras hablaban estirando el dedo como batutas, hablaban de los otros, hablaban en tono falsamente afectuoso de los otros, del sufrimiento de los otros, de la angustia de los otros, de la perplejidad de los otros, sin entender que estaban muertos, Joana, definitivamente muertos, disertando sobre los vivos con la envidia que anima los gestos fosforescentes y blandos de los difuntos, sus órbitas huecas, sus enormes bocas sin dientes.

It is important that those engaged in terrorism realise that our determination to defend our values and our way of life is greater than their determination to cause death and destruction to innocent people in a desire to impose extremism on the world.

If you ever allow yourself to see it will be the death of you. And that is why love is so terrifying, for to love is to see and to see is to die. But it is the most delightful exhilarating experience in the whole world. For in the death of the ego is freedom, peace, serenity, joy.

For in the death of the ego is freedom, peace, serenity, joy.

Không có góc nhìn cuá»™c s?ng nào t?t hÆ¡n là nhìn nó t? cái ch?t.

Who knew love could kill you?

And as he looked, turning the leaf over and back, Aethon saw that the cities on both sides of the page, the dark ones and the bright ones, were one and the same, that there is no peace without war, no life without death, and he was afraid.

He says, "I saved her only to hear her die.

He wants to tell her that when things vanish they become something else, in death we rise again in the blades of grass, the splitting bodies of seeds.

The bony figure of Death rides the streets below, stopping his mount now and then to peer into windows. Horns of fire on his head and smoke leaking from his nostrils and, in his skeletal hand, a list of newly charged with addresses.

Maybe he was dead and this island was purgatory from which he could only watch the souls of the more deserving go shuttling past to their various Edens. What is death, after all, but a cessation of involvement with the world, a departure from those you love, and those who love you?

He wants to tell her what he has learned about the miracles of light, the way a day's light fluxes in tides: pale and gleaming at dawn, the glare of noon, the gold of evening, the promise of twilight -- every second of every day has its own magic. He wants to tell her that when things vanish they become something else, in death we rise again in the blades of grass, the splitting bodies of seeds.

I saved her only to hear her die.

Studying ice crystals as a graduate student, he eventually found the basic design (equilateral, equiangled hexagon) so icily repeated, so unerringly conforming, that he couldn't help but shudder: Beneath the splendor--the filigreed blossoms, the microscopic stars--was a ghastly inevitability; crystals could not escape their embedded blueprints any more than humans could. Everything hewed to a rigidity of pattern, the certainty of death.

The dead are gone and so their power over the living is only temporary. You lose sleep, you lose appetite, but eventually you fall asleep and eventually you eat - you may hate yourself for it, but the body's demands are incontrovertible. He had always felt guilt about that, that he went on living... p 115

Frau Elena, does a bee know it's going to die if it stings somebody?

First we die, the woman says. "Then our bodies are buried. So we die two deaths." "Then in another world, folded inside the living world, we wait. We wait until everyone who knew us when we were children has died. And then the last of them dies, we finally die our third death.

All her life she has been told to believe, tried to believe, wanted to believe, that if a person suffers long enough, works hard enough, then she—like Ulysses washing up on the shore of the kingdom of brave Alcinous—will ultimately reach a better place. That through suffering we are redeemed. That by dying we live again. And maybe in the end that's the easier thing. But Anna is tired of suffering. And she is not ready to die.

Who had he been? A failed father, a runaway husband. A son. A packet of unopened letters. He was dead; he was dead.

Styrofoam tombstones around the stage and angles the microwave-box-turned-sarcophagus so the audience can read its epitaph: Aethon: Lived 80 Years a Man, 1