Quotes About Death

We all feel that we are something other than a being which someone once created out of nothing: from this arises the confidence that, while death may be able to end our life, it cannot end our existence.

what penalty can frighten a man who is not afraid of death itself?

it seems to me that the idea of dignity can be applied only in an ironical sense to a being whose will is so sinful, whose intellect is so limited, whose body is so weak and perishable as man's. How shall a man be proud, when his conception is a crime, his birth a penalty, his life a labour, and death a necessity!—

Accordingly, the loss of the beloved one through a rival, or through death, is the greatest pain of all to those passionately in love; just because it is of a transcendental nature, since it affects him not merely as an individual, but also assails him in his essentia aeterna, in the life of the species, in whose special will and service he was here called. This is why jealousy is so tormenting and bitter, and the giving up of the loved one the greatest of all sacrifices.

I was gripped by the misery of life as Buddha was in his youth when he saw sickness, old age, pain and death. The truth . . . was that this world could not have been the work of an all-loving Being, but rather that of a devil, who had brought creatures into existence in order to delight in the sight of their sufferings; to this the data pointed, and the belief that it is so won the upper hand.

When, at the end of their lives, most men look back they will find that they have lived throughout ad interim. They will be surprised to see that the very thing they allowed to slip unnapreciated and unenjoyed by was their life. And so a man, having been duped by hope, dances into the arms of death.

In its death throes, we see religion clinging to morality, whose mother it would like to pretend to be. In vain! – genuine morality is dependent on no religion, although religion sanctions and thereby sustains it.

Cuando oigo música, mi imaginación juega a menudo con la idea de que la vida de todos los hombres y la mía propia no son más que sueños de un espíritu eterno, buenos o malos sueños, de que cada muerte es un despertar.

Every separation is a foretaste of death while every new meeting a foretaste of life.

El amor es la compensación de la muerte, su correlativo esencial.

When I was seventeen, without any proper schooling, I was affected by the misery and wretchedness of life, as was the Buddha when in his youth he caught sight of sickness, old age, pain and death ... the result for me was that this world could not be the work of an all-bountiful, infinitely good being, but rather of a demon who had summoned into existence creatures in order to gloat over the sight of their anguish and agony.

Morta la vecchia, debito saldato.

Life itself is a sea full of rocks and whirlpools that man avoids with the greatest caution and care, although he knows that, even when he succeeds with all his efforts and ingenuity in struggling through, at every step he comes nearer to the greatest, the total, the inevitable and irremediable shipwreck, indeed even steers right on to it, namely death. This is the final goal of the wearisome voyage, and is worse for him than all the rocks that he has avoided.

A man shows who he is by the way that he dies.

Cuando oigo música, mi imaginación juega a menudo con la idea de que la vida de todos los hombres, y la mía propia, no son más que sueños de un espíritu eterno, buenos o malos; de que cada muerte es un despertar.

Bütün bunlar elbette, hayat?n bir rüya, ölümün de bu rüyadan uyan?? olarak nitelendirilebileceÄŸi anlam?na gelir. Ancak unutulmamal?d?r ki kiÅŸilik ve birey, bu rüya haline aittir, uyanm?? bilince deÄŸil.

The only dream worth having, I told her, is to dream that you will live while you're alive and die only when you're dead.

It is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that it purloined. Over the years, as the memory of Sophie Mol ... slowly faded, the Loss of Sophie Mol grew robust and alive. It was always there. Like a fruit in season. Every season. As permanent as a government job.

A sparrow lay dead on the backseat. She had found her way through a hole in the windscreen, tempted by some seat-sponge for her nest. She never found her way out. No one noticed her panicked car-window appeals. She died on the backseat, with her legs in the air. Like a joke.

She could hear her hair growing. It sounded like something crumbling. A burnt thing crumbling. Coal. Toast. Moths crisped on a light bulb. She remembered reading somewhere that even after people died, their hair and nails kept growing. Like starlight, travelling through the universe long after the stars themselves had died. Like cities. Fizzy, effervescent, simulating the illusion of life while the planet they had plundered died around them.

Life went on. Death went on. The war went on.

All three of them bonded by the certain, separate knowledge that they had loved a man to death.

It was not entirely his fault that he lived in a society where a man's death could be more profitable than his life had ever been.

She described how, when her brother's body was found in a field and brought home, his fists, clenched in rigor mortis, were full of earth and yellow mustard flowers grew from between his fingers.