Quotes About Death

She was dying and he was not, and that was a barrier not even love could breach.

Lifeless corpses

Why would you take a drug that is guaranteed to kill you in forty years? One reason, right? It's the only thing that will stop you dying tomorrow.

If I could choose, a place to die," it would never have been in your arms, old darling

To overcome your fear of death, you have to move from 'the world ends with me' to 'the world goes on without me'. It is a great leap, the biggest step a human can take.

I should probably feel something more about his death, but I don't. It's messed up that he killed himself, and it's messed up that the guards broke Bobby's arm. And it's not right, either, that we have to spend months in a place where no is getting any better. No one is learning anything, as far as I can see. In some ways, it seems like people are getting worse. Am I? I don't think so, but who knows.

He could do little. Brandy might help, he thought, but when he poured some into the hurt man's mouth it ran back out again. Presently a colonel, Johnston's chief of staff, came hurrying into the ravine. But he could do nothing either. He knelt down facing the general. "Johnston, do you know me? Johnston, do you know me?" he kept asking, over and over, nudging the general's shoulder as he spoke. But Johnston did not know him. Johnston was dead.

Elitism thus had a dark side, a fascination with noble death, with death not for low material ends—that was for the multitude and the merchants—but for fame, even immortality.

He had gone home from his office the previous morning to find her dead, lying on the hillside below their deck.

It seems to me sometimes all beauty is dying. Which makes me hope that perhaps it isn't dead but only sleeping. And that makes me think of Sleeping Beauty and wonder if she, Beauty that is, might not be a metaphor for what is happening to the world at large: perfect Beauty born, Beauty cursed with death, Beauty dying - but with the magical hope of being reawakened, maybe by love.

Warriors are those who desire battle more than peace. Those who seek battle despite peace. Those who thump their spears on the group and talk of honor. Those who leap high in the battle dance and dream of glory.... The good of dead warriors, Mother, is that they are dead.

When it comes to death, we know that laughter and tears are pretty much the same thing.

Somebody dies and people eat your food. Funny how that works.

It's a weird thing. Reservations were meant to be prisons, you know? Indians were supposed to move onto reservations and die. We were supposed to disappear. But somehow or another, Indians have forgotten the reservations were meant to be death camps.

I cannot defeat cancer. Nobody defeats cancer. There is no winning or losing. There is no surviving or not surviving. There are only coin flips: heads or tails; benign or malignant; weight loss or bloating; morphine or oxycodone; extreme rescue efforts or Do Not Resuscitate; live or die.

A bullet only costs about two cents, and anybody can afford that.

Did you know that you can be killed by a benign tumor? Imagine that news headline: Native American poet killed by oxymoron.

No, Miss Warren said. Your sister, she's dead

Susan Alexie died of tuberculosis on August 30, 1945. I don't know why the exact date of her death is not on her gravestone. Perhaps it had been about money. Those extra letters and numbers might have been too expensive. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I could write I don't know one million times and publish that as my memoir. And, yes, it would be repetitive, experimental, and more metaphor than history, but it would also be emotionally accurate.

I know that death is never added to death; it multiplies.

There is a good day to die and there is a good day to play the piano.

Because someone needs to help you die the right way," she said. "And we both know that dying ain't something you ever done before.

That's how it was." "How do you kill somebody accidentally?"

God, I wanted to be forgiven, but an apology offered to a dead man is only a selfish apology to yourself.