Quotes About Death

I tell a friend that I hope for Mother's death, and he is shocked; he sees it as a failure in my love toward her. Perhaps it is. I don't know.

Anyone, Eliza is thinking, who describes dying as 'slipping away' or 'peaceful' has never witnessed it happen. Death is violent, death is a struggle. The body clings to life, as ivy to a wall, and will not easily let go, will not surrender its grip without a fight.

And there, by the fire, held in the arms of his mother, in the room in which he learnt to crawl, to eat, to walk, to speak, Hamnet takes his last breath. He draws it in, he lets it out. Then there is silence, stillness. Nothing more.

If you take away the gift of reading, you create the gift of listening. If you bomb a city, you leave behind death and destruction. But you create a community of remote misses. If you take away a mother or a father, you cause suffering and despair. But one time in ten, out of that despair rises an indomitable force.

In winter, the lazy man freezes to death.

some of his students and colleagues from Oklahoma. They gathered together the death certificates from residents of the town, going back as

The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment... Her bare Feet seem to be saying: We have come so far, it is over.

his students and colleagues from Oklahoma. They gathered together the death certificates from residents of

They were strangers to each other. If we were more thoughtful as a society—if we were willing to engage in some soul-searching about how we approach and make sense of strangers—she would not have ended up dead in a Texas jail cell.

The dead. Do they sleep? Why should they, when we cannot?

What is man but a little soul holding up a corpse?

Night: and once again, the nightly grapple with death, the room shaking with daemonic orchestras, the snatches of fearful sleep, the voices outside the window, my name being continually repeated with scorn by imaginary parties arriving, the dark's spinets. As if there were not enough real noises in these nights the color of grey hair. Not like the rending tumult of American cities, the noise of the unbandaging of great giants in agony.

SCARED TO DEATH In Arizona, a 1000-acre forest of junipers suddenly withered and died. Foresters are unable to explain it, but the Indians say the trees died of fear but they are not in agreement as to what caused the fright.

Black Flowers is the name of that song." Cervantes was about to beckon the man to come in. "It say:—I suffer, because your lips say only lies and they have death in a kiss.

It was this calamity he now, with María, penetrated, the only thing alive in him now this burning boiling crucified evil organ—God is it possible to suffer more than this, out of this suffering something must be born, and what would be born was his own death) for ah, how alike are the groans of love to those of the dying, how alike, those of love, to those of the dying.

For the Love of Dying The tortures of hell are stern, their fires burn fiercely. Yet vultures turn against the air more beautifully than seagulls float downwind in cool sunlight, or fans in asylums spin a loom of fate for hope which never ventured up so high as life's deception, astride the vulture's flight. If death can fly, just for the love of flying, what might not life do, for the love of dying?

Strange Type I wrote: in the dark cavern of our birth. The printer had it tavern, which seems better: But herein lies the subject of our mirth, Since on the next page death appears as dearth. So it may be that God's word was distraction, Which to our strange type appears destruction, Which is bitter.

the fair had completely altered for him. The merry grinding of the roller skates, the cheerful if ironic music, the cries of the little children on their goose-necked steeds, the procession of queer pictures—all this had suddenly become transcendentally awful and tragic, distant, transmuted, as it were some final impression on the senses of what the earth was like, carried over into an obscure region of death, a gathering thunder of immedicable sorrow.

I'm a man who believes that I died 20 years ago. And I live like a man who is dead already. I have no fear whatsoever of anybody or anything.

A living dog is better than a dead lion

The world screams, 'Stay down, it's safer.' My soul screams, 'So is being dead.

We have to feed our loved ones, but at what cost. A dead man or woman can't feed the living.

When the heart accepts death first, words you can trust are feelings you can take.

A life of action and danger moderates the dread of death. It not only gives us fortitude to bear pain but teaches us at every step the precarious tenure on which we hold our present being.