Quotes About Death

Mother nature is a brutal bitch, red in tooth and claw, who destroys what she creates.

Lila!" she said, wincing again. "Such language, honey! Your parents don't let you swear like that around them, do they?" Whoadie folded her arms. "Well, no, they didn't used to," she said. "But they both died in a hurricane when I was little, so now I get to say whatever the fuck I want.

Did my 'recruit profile' mention that my anger-management issues might be linked to the tragic death of my father in a shit-factory explosion when I was ten months old?" The

O que acontece depois da morte? Bem, não sabemos ao certo. Mas as evidências sugerem que não acontece nada. Você morre, seu cérebro para de funcionar e você some e deixa de fazer perguntas irritantes.

You're just dead, your brain stops working, and then you're not around to ask annoying questions anymore.

Those stories you heard? About going to a wonderful place called 'heaven' where there is no more pain or death and you live forever in a state of perpetual happiness? Also total bullshit. Just like all that God stuff. There's no evidence of a heaven and there never was. We made that up too. Wishful thinking. So

You're going to die. We all die. That's just how it is.

What happens when you die? Well, we're not completely sure. But the evidence seems to suggest that nothing happens. You're just dead, your brain stops working, and then you're not around to ask annoying questions anymore

At first, I couldn't understand why the media was making such a big deal of the billionaire's death. After all, the people of Planet Earth had other concerns. The ongoing energy crisis. Catastrophic climate change. Widespread famine, poverty and disease. Half a dozen wars. You know: "dogs and cats living together... mass hysteria.

This was not how I wanted to die. Not even close. And then my ex-girlfriend fell out of the sky.

Halliday had prepared a short video message, along with instructions that it be released to the world media at the time of his death.

You're probably wondering what's going to happen to you. That's easy. The same thing is going to happen to you that has happened to every other human being who has ever lived. You're going to die. We all die. That's just how it is.

Fear of death increases in exact proportion to increase in wealth.

Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter's honor.

They wrote in the old days that it is sweet and fitting to die for one's country. But in modern war, there is nothing sweet nor fitting in your dying. You will die like a dog for no good reason.

In modern war... you will die like a dog for no good reason.

But in modern war you will die like a dog for no good reason.

Do not ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.

Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another.

Do I know what a man is ? Do I know how a man is supposed to die ? I'm still trying to find out how a man should live. Am I supposed to tell someone how to die who has never lived ?

Let us pardon him his hope of a vain apocalypse, and of a second coming in great triumph upon the clouds of heaven. Perhaps these were the errors of others rather than his own; and if it be true that he himself shared the general illusion, what matters it, since his dream rendered him strong against death, and sustained him in a struggle to which he might otherwise have been unequal?

The dramatic news is confirmed: Che has died in combat. His belongings are described in vivid detail and other information is given that only those close to the scene could have known. The

Dead men by mass production––in one country after another––month after month and year after year. Dead men in winter and dead men in summer. Dead men in such familiar promiscuity that they become monotonous. Dead men in such monstrous infinity that you come almost to hate them. These are the things that you at home need not even try to understand.

Dead men in such familiar promiscuity that they become monotonous. Dead men in such monstrous infinity that you come almost to hate them. Those are the things that you at home need not even try to understand. To you at home they are columns of figures, or he is a near one who went away and just didn't come back. You didn't see him lying so grotesque and pasty beside the gravel road in France. We saw him, saw him by the multiple thousands. That's the difference.