Quotes About Death

Se dijo que todo lo que a él le parecía importante no lo era realmente y que en todo lo que realmente era importante no tenía tiempo de pensar. La vida pasaba sin reflexionar apenas sobre las cosas sencillas y grandes, la soledad, la nostalgia, el deseo y la muerte.

Un bourgeon, une feuille morte, la mort et la vie Le fruit du hasard, non, un principe établi

His life is his prison while his death is limned to him as a prospect of paradoxical resurrection, a promise of miraculous redemption from his vale of tears.

As soon as I knew that I would be all right, I was sure that I was dead and didn't know it. I moved through the days like a severed head that finishes a sentence. I waited for the moment that would snap me out of my seeming life.

Death is a manifestation, the complete and total embodiment of fear.

When Death laughs, no one else does

How can you blame a person for his fears and weaknesses unless you have felt the same and done differently? How can you think everyone can be a hero, choosing death, when it is part of our nature to let go of brave thoughts at the last moment and cling to hope and life?

What was worse, we asked among ourselves, to sit and wait for our own deaths with proper somber faces? Or to choose our own happiness?

What was worse, we asked ourselves, to sit and wait for our own deaths with proper somber faces? Or to choose our own happiness?

He llegado al punto en que ya me da lo mismo morir que seguir viviendo. La Tierra seguirá dando vueltas aunque yo no esté.

Idealism is the death of the body and the imagination. All but freedom, utter freedom, is death

Our love would be death. The embrace of imaginings.

I see ashes under the skin of her face. Disintegration. What terrible anxiety I feel. I want to put my arms around her. I feel her receding into death and I am willing to enter death to follow her, to embrace her. She is dying before my eyes. Her tantalizing, somber beauty is dying. Her strange, manlike strength.

Dr Allendy said that it was necessary to become equal to life, that the romantic was defeated by life, really died of it, whether by tuberculosis in the old days, or by neurosis today. I had never thought before of the connection between neurosis and romanticism. Wanting the impossible? Dying when unable to reach it? Not wanting to compromise?

All adventurers came to grief. Perhaps they had not been able to make the transition, to alchemize the life of the mind into the life of the senses. They died when their minds were overpowered by nature, yet they did not hesitate to dilute it in alcohol.

Night. The stars and the moon impassive, undisturbed, eternal. A little of their impassivity flows into me. They are consoling. They reduce the intensity and acuteness of human sorrow. I feel less strangled, less oppressed. I transfer to the moon and the stars some of the trust in God I once had, and realize that serenity comes from an acceptance of death. Man's life span is short. There is an end to pain.

I have run away with a part of my treasures, my memories, my obsession, with preserving, portraying, recording. All of us may die, but in these pages we will continue to smile, talk, make love.

I am made only for passion; it is the temperature of love that I cannot endure. I am afraid, and I think it is death- everything but passion seems like death to me. Only in fever do I feel life.

Point was that Poe's mother died of consumption when he was 3. He sought the image of her in several other women, including the consumption, the lingering death etc. The dying women haunt his work, dominate it (perhaps as cruel women have haunted and dominated you). Dying women arrested the living flow of his sensuality. His sensuality became necrophilic. Et puis après?

He is dissecting poetry. It has become a cadaver.

Cuando miro tu rostro, quisiera dejarme llevar y compartir tu locura, que llevo dentro de mí como un secreto y no puedo seguir disimulando. Siento una aguda y pavorosa alegría. Es la alegría que se siente cuando se ha aceptado la muerte y la desintegración, una alegría más terrible y más profunda que la alegría de vivir, de crear

Yo estoy rebosante de amor hacia ella. Y al mismo tiempo siento que me estoy muriendo. Nuestro amor sería la muerte. El abrazo de las imaginaciones.

Men think they live and die for ideas. What a divine joke. They live and die for emotional, personal errors, just as women do.

Os fios telefônicos carregavam apenas mensagens literais, nunca os gritos subterrâneos de angústia, de desespero. Como os telegramas, eles entregavam apenas golpes finais e finitos: chegadas, partidas, nascimentos e mortes, mas nenhum espaço para fantasias como: Long Island é uma tumba e mais um dia nela iria provocar asfixia.