Quotes About Death

If nothing else, the old man would die like a human. Or at least with the thought that he was a human.

So much of the dying hurt us.

death's diary- the snowman- thirteen presents- the next book- the nightmare of a Jewish corpse- a newspaper sky- a visitor- a schmunzeler- and a final kiss on poisoned cheeks

It kills me sometimes, how people die

Was he really a coward, as his son had so brutally pointed out? Certainly, in World War I, he considered himself one. He attributed his survival to it. But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgment of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived? - Hans Hubermann

With the rest of them, he stood around the bed and watched the man die—a safe merge, from life to death. The light in the window was gray and orange, the color of summer's skin, and his uncle appeared relieved when his breathing disappeared completely. "When death captures me," the boy vowed, "he will feel my fist on his face.

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

One seat, two men, a short argument and me. It kills me sometimes, how people die.

They're strange, those wars. Full of blood and violence - but full of stories that are equally difficult to fanthom. It's true, people will mutter. I don't care if you don't belive me. It was the fox who saved my life or, They died on either side of me and I was left standing there, the only one without a bullet between my eyes. Why me? Why me and not them?

Cómo puede quedarse allí sentada dispuesta a morir mientras yo quiero seguir viviendo? [...] ¿Por qué quiero vivir? No debería y, sin embargo, quiero vivir.

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.

He'd have been glad to witness her kissing his dusty, bomb-hit lips. Yes, i know it. In the darkness of my dark-beating heart, i know. He'd have loved it, all right. You see? Even death has a heart

Le cÅ"ur humain est une ligne, tandis que le mien est un cercle, et j'ai la capacité infinie de me trouver au bon moment au bon endroit. En conséquence, je trouve toujours des humains au meilleur et au pire d'eux-mêmes. Je vois leur beauté et leur laideur, et je me demande comment une même chose peut réunir l'une et l'autre. Reste que je les envie sur un point. Les humains ont au moins l'intelligence de mourir.

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

On the ration cards of Nazi Germany, there was no listing for punishment, but everyone had to take their turn. For some it was death in a foreign country during the war. For others it was poverty and guilt when the war was over, when six million discoveries were made throughout Europe.

In the darkness of my dark-beating heart, I know. He'd have loved it, all right. You see? Even death has a heart.

Are you looking at a dead man now?

A final dirty joke. Another human punch line. As with many of the others, when I began my journey away, there seemed a quick shadow again, a final moment of eclipse—the recognition of another soul gone. You see, to me, for just a moment, despite all of the colors that touch and grapple with what I see in this world, I will often catch an eclipse when a human dies. I've seen millions of them. I've seen more eclipses than I care to remember

al menos los humanos tienen el buen juicio de morir.

Qué gran maldad puede encubrir la prolongación de una vida.

When Death has a story to tell; you listen.

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

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. Making his way through all of it. On the surface: unflappable, unwavering. Below: unnerved, untied, and undone.

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.