Quotes About Death

Who will remember, passing through this gate,The unheroic dead who fed the guns?Who shall absolve the foulness of their fate—Those doomed, conscripted, unvictorious ones?

And when the war is done and youth stone deadI'd toddle safely home and die—in bed.

Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled, And one arm bent across your sullen cold Exhausted face? It hurts my heart to watch you, Deep-shadow'd from the candle's guttering gold; And you wonder why I shake you by the shoulder; Drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head.... You are too young to fall asleep for ever; And when you sleep you remind me of the dead.

The dead...are more real than the living because they are complete.

I keep such music in my brain No din this side of death can quell; Glory exulting over pain, And beauty, garlanded in hell.

I died in hell. They called it Passchendaele.

The phrase "after-life" was also vaguely confused with going to church and not wanting to be dead - a perplexity which can be omitted from a narrative in which I am doing my best to confine myself to actual happenings. At the age of twenty-two I believed myself to be unextinguishable.

When Dick was killed last week he looked like that, Flapping along the fire-step like a fish, After the blazing crump had knocked him flat…. "How many dead? As many as ever you wish. Don't count 'em; they're too many. Who'll buy my nice fresh corpses, two a penny?

Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land, Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows. In the great hour of destiny they stand, Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.

I didn't want to die – not before I'd finished reading The Return of the Native anyhow.

As regards being dead, however, one of my main consolations has always been that I have the strongest intention of being an extremely active ghost. Let nobody make any mistake about that.

But death replied: "I choose him." So he went, And there was silence in the summer night; Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep. Then, far away, the thudding of the guns.

Burning my dreams away beside the fire: For death has made me wise and bitter and strong; And I am rich in all that I have lost.

Light many lamps and gather round his bed. Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live. Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet. He's young; he hated war; how should he die When cruel old campaigners win safe through? But death replied: "I choose him." So he went, And there was silence in the summer night; Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep. Then, far away, the thudding of the guns.

The goal of all life is death.

Someone has said, When you are born into this world there are at least two of you, but going out you are on your own. Death happens to every one of us, yet it remains the most solitary of human experiences, one that separates rather than unites us.

The poet Rilke once reported seeing a dying dog give its mistress a look full of reproach. Later, he gave this experience to the narrator of a novel: He was convinced I could have prevented it. It was now clear that he had always overrated me. And there was no time left to explain it to him. He continued to gaze at me, surprised and solitary, until it was over.

He reflected that what is important is not things, but the meaning we give to things. Sooner or later death comes for everyone. More important than putting off death, is giving it a meaning.

L'importante non sono le cose, ma il senso che noi diamo alle cose. Prima o poi la morte attende tutti. Più importante del rimandare la morte è darle un senso.

Orks ir tas, kurš priec?jas, kad b?rns cieš, bet v?l laim?g?ks tas ir, ja b?rns mirst.

Comme ils l'expliquèrent confusément, il y a deux façons de mourir : soit personne n'intervient et tout le monde s'en fout, ou alors quelqu'un essaye de faire quelque chose et n'y arrive pas. Ce n'est pas la même chose.

I write in order to forget scorn, in order not to forget, in order not to hate, from hate, from love, from memory, and so as not to die.

Like Gabriela, she liked animals because they behaved in a natural way; if they were hungry they ate nonstop, if they were thirsty they drank until they were full, if they were in heat they made love desperately, if they were tired they slept at any hour of the day, if they were furious they bit or scratched or killed their enemy. It is true is that they also died and that dying is ridiculous, but they were so meticulous, so precise.

If the left wing was to rule, the result would be misery, terror and death, like it happens in every place where communism rules.