Quotes About Death

HERE IS A SMALL FACT *** You are going to die. I am in all truthfulness attempting to be cheerful about this whole topic, though most people find themselves hindered in believing me, no matter my protestations. Please, trust me. I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.

El corazón de los humanos no es como el mío. El de los humanos es una línea, mientras que el mío es un círculo y poseo la infinita habilidad de estar en el lugar apropiado en el momento oportuno. La consecuencia es que siempre encuentro humanos en su mejor y en su peor momento. Veo su fealdad y su belleza y me pregunto cómo ambas pueden ser lo mismo. Sin embargo, tienen algo que les envidio: al menos los humanos tienen el buen juicio de morir. - La Muerte

As she watched all of this, Liesel was certain that these were the poorest souls alive. That's what she wrote about them . . . Some looked appealingly at those who had come to observe their humiliation, this prelude to their deaths. Others pleaded for someone, anyone to step forward and catch them in their arms. No one did.

He was a great horse," she went on, "and the perfect story—we wouldn't love him so much if he'd lived.

Just give hime five more minutes and he would surely fall into the German gutter and die. They would all let him, and they would all watch. Then, one human. Hans Hubermann.

Certainly war meant dying, but it always shifted the ground beneath a person's feet when it was someone who had once lived and breathed in close proximity.

He was hanging from one of the rafters in a laundry up near Frau Diller's. Another human pendulum. Another clock, stopped.

In truth, I think he was afraid. Rudy Steiner was scared of the book theif's kiss. He must have longed for it so much. He must have loved her so incredibly hard. So hard that he would never ask for her lips again and would go to his grave without them.

a young man was hung by a rope made of Stalingrad snow

A veces me mata ver cómo muere la gente.

Hasta la muerte tiene corazón.

death is speacking : please believe me when I tell you that I picked up each soul that day as if it were newly born. I even kissed a few weary poisoned cheeks.I listened to their last gasping cries.Their french words.I watched their love visions and freed them from their fear.

So many humans. So many colors. They keep triggering inside me. They harass my memory. I see them tall in their heaps, all mounted on top of each other. There is air like plastic, a horizon like setting glue. There are skies manufactured by people, punctured and leaking, and there are soft, coal-colored clouds, beating like black hearts. And then. There is death.

When death tells a story yo really have to listen

Un asiento, dos hombres, una breve discusión y yo. A veces me mata ver cómo muere la gente.

Well, promise me one thing, Liesel. If I die anytime soon, you make sure they bury me right.

God, there were so many of them. So many sets of dying eyes and scuffing feet.

Here is a small fact: You are going to die does this scare you? I urge you don't be afraid, I'm nothing if not fair - Death

A SMALL ANNOUNCEMENT *** ***ABOUT RUDY STEINER*** He didn't deserve to die the way he did.

Immediately. Her brother was next to her. He whispered for her to stop, but he, too, was dead, and not worth listening to. He died in a train. They buried him in the snow.

The human heart is a line, whereas my own is a circle, and I have the endless ability to be in the right place at the right time. The consequence of this is that I'm always finding humans at their best and worst. I see their ugly and their beauty, and I wonder how the same thing can be both. Still, they have one thing I envy. Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.

When death captures me," the boy vowed, "he will feel my fist on his face." Personally, I quite like that. Such stupid gallantry. Yes. I like that a lot.

So many colors. They keep triggering inside me. They harstinker my memory. I see them tall in their heaps, all mounted on top of each other. There is air like plastic, a horizon like setting glue. There are skies manufactured by people, punctured and leaking, and there are soft, coal-colored clouds, beating like black hearts. And then. There is death. Making his way through all of it. On the surface: unflappable, unwavering. Below: unnerved, untied, and undone.

Und es sollte mir einmal mehr beweisen, dass eine Gelegenheit geradewegs zu einer anderen führt, genauso wie ein Risiko ein weiteres nach sich zieht, ein Leben ein anderes und ein Tod den nächsten.