Quotes About Death

I remember that one day, when we were in a car tooling along at top speed,we crashed into a cyclist, an apparently very young and very pretty girl. Her head was almost totally ripped off by the wheels. For a long time, we were parked a few yards beyond without getting out, fully absorbed in the sight of the corpse. The horror and despair at so much bloody flesh, nauseating in part, and in part very beautiful, was fairly equivalent to our usual impression upon seeing one another.

The emotional element which gives an obsessive value to communal existence is death.

Realism gives me the impression of a mistake. Violence alone escapes the feeling of poverty of those realistic experiences. Only death and desire have the force that oppresses, that takes one's breath away. Only the extremism of desire and death enable one to attain the truth.

To remain virile in the light demands the audacity of a mad ignorance: letting oneself catch fire, screaming with joy, expecting death—because of an unknown, unknowable presence; becoming love and blind light oneself, attaining the perfect incomprehension of the sun.

I equate love (bodies touching indecently) to the limitlessness of being – to nausea, to the sun, and to death.

I felt as if I were living only in order to be more aware that I was dead.

Lo serio, la muerte y el dolor fundan la verdad obtusa. Pero lo serio de la muerte y el dolor es la servidumbre del pensamiento.

Le monde sent la mort Les oiseaux volent les yeux crevés Tu es sombre comme un ciel noir.

Starry sky my sister cursed men star your death the light of a great cold solitude of lightning absence of humanity at last I empty myself of memories a desert sun effaces my name star I see its silence ice it cries out like a wolf on my back I fall to the ground it kills me I guess.

if I did not love death my suffering my desire for you would kill me your absence your distress make me nauseous it's time for me to love death it's time to bite its hands

I already knew this immense tenderness, which is only the last degree of sorrow… I knew then, already, that the intimacy of things is death.

Life will dissolve itself in death, rivers in the sea, and the known in the unknown.

I equate love (bodies touching indecently) to the limitlessness of being – to nausea, to the sun, and to death. —Georges Bataille, from "La Scissiparié," Oeuvres Completes III . (Editions Flammarion July 27, 1984) Originally published in Les Cahiers de la Pléiade, Spring 1949.

I fucked her for the first time, next to the corpse. It was very painful for both of us, but we were glad precisely because it was painful.

Ces grandes eaux de la possibilité miraculeuse où d'ailleurs doivent se retrouver la transparence, la richesse et la splendeur apaisante de la mort et de l'univers, supposent l'imagination réunissant ce qui n'est jamais donné qu'en parties.

What I want', were the words she left me with, administering a poison, 'is that you love me even unto death. For my part, it is in death I love you at this very instant. But I don't want your love unless you know I am repulsive, and love me even as you know it.

What I want, is that you love me even unto death. For my part, it is in death I love you at this very instant. But I don't want your love unless you know I am repulsive, and love me even as you know it.

Parfois, tu rêves que le sommeil est une morte lente qui te gagne, une anestésie douce et terrible à la fois, une nécrose heureuse : le froid monte le long de tes jambes, le long de tes bras, monte lentement, t'engourdit, t'annihile. Ton orteil est une montagne lointaine, ta jambe un fleuve, ta joue est ton oreiller, tu loges tout entier dans ton pouce, tu fonds, tu coules comme du sable, comme du mercure.

Ölümün için her ÅŸey çoktan haz?r: Seni öldürecek top güllesi çok uzun zaman önceden eritilip döküldü, tabutunun peÅŸinden aÄŸlayacak olan kad?nlar çoktan tutuldu.

Tu n'est pas mort et la mort même ne saurait te délivrer...

It is the twenty-third of June nineteen seventy-five, and it is eight o'clock in the evening. Seated at his jigsaw puzzle, Bartlebooth has just died.

There are women whose love only ends with death.

Can there be anything more sad than a girl dying on the day of her first communion, in her new dress. A little bride of death...

A great melancholy was hanging in the air, giving their love a more languid, more tender feeling. It was like the love one feels before a separation, it was like love in a country where there is a war, in a town where epidemics are raging. A strong love, from feeling close to death. Here death reigned, it was as if the town were the Museum of Death. (The Dead Town)