Quotes About Death

It's not that that kills people," he said, "it's the fear. I mean, it's okay to die. We remember that from our psychedelic days, don't we? That we are divine?

It's only temporary: you either die, or get better. —Something we used to say about life in general, feeling sophisticated and amusing in bars, back in the days when we thought how you behaved was the fault of other people.

We discovered that peace at any price is no peace at all...that life at any price has no value whatever; that life is nothing without the privileges, the prides, the rights, the joys that make it worth living and also worth giving...and that there is something more hideous, more atrocious than war or than death; and that is to live in fear.

Poor women suffer terrible sexual violence that goes unreported. Because of their social class, these women do not have access to therapy or other methods of healing. Their repeated abuse ultimately eats away at their self-esteem, driving them to drugs, prostitution, AIDS, and in many cases, death.

It is where we do not live that the dying comes.

His courtesy was somewhat extravagant. He would write and thank people who wrote to thank him for wedding presents and when he encountered anyone as punctilious as himself the correspondence ended only with death.

He had not been physically fit for some time before his death, but we could accept that for, as I said to a senior officer who queried the point, 'He does not have to look like an officer -- only like a staff officer.

There died a myriad,And of the best, among them,For an old bitch gone in the teeth,For a botched civilization.Charm, smiling at the good mouth,Quick eyes gone under earth's lid,For two gross of broken statues,For a few thousand battered books.

There are few things more difficult than to appraise the work of a man suddenly dead in his youth; to disentangle promise from achievement; to save him from that sentimentalizing which confuses the tragedy of the interruption with the merit of the work actually performed.

where the dead walked and the living were made of cardboard.

Song in the Manner of Housman" O woe, woe, People are born and die, We also shall be dead pretty soon Therefore let us act as if we were dead already. The bird sits on the hawthorn tree But he dies also, presently. Some lads get hung, and some get shot. Woeful is this human lot. Woe! woe, etcetera.... London is a woeful place, Shropshire is much pleasanter. Then let us smile a little space Upon fond nature's morbid grace. Oh, Woe, woe, woe, etcetera....

No one knows, at sight a masterpiece. And give up verse, my boy, There's nothing in it. Likewise a friend of Bloughram's once advised me: Don't kick against the pricks, Accept opinion. The Nineties tried your game And died, there's nothing in it.

Time, space, neither life nor death is the answer. And of man seeking good, doing evil. In meiner Heimat where the dead walked and the living were made of cardboard. Ezra Pound, from "Canto CXV" (The Cantos of Ezra Pound)

She is submarine, she is an octopus, she is A biological process, So Arnaut turned there Above him the wave pattern cut in the stone Spire-top alevel the well-curb And the tower with cut stone above that, saying, "I am afraid of the life after death." and after a pause: "Now, at least, I have shocked him.

Those who grow, live and die. The stagnant pool is immortal, while the clear flowing river dies an uncountable number of deaths.

Religion is the human response to being alive and having to die.

One said of suicide, As long as one has brains one should not blow them out. And another answered, But when one has ceased to have them, too often one cannot.

Life is always sad. That's what makes suicide so tempting because life is all that we really have and haven't. Death makes us equals, too, because the foul and the good all die. The past, the present, and the future-what escape is there from these? None-and yet sometimes we are life's happy victims.

We do not conquer life, no one can conquer what one cannot define, but at least it is there and it is ours to shape and to possess fully, with all the senses working, with all the powers of the heart surging, as we search for the answer to the greatest riddle of them all- death, the ultimate end, the enemy of all men, the final quietus to the noblest of emotions, the tenacity and ethereal creativity of faith.

In death, all men are brothers. -Istak

But all men die--as anonymously as they had lived, no matter what their achievements. -Istak

But when a person commits suicide, he does not do violence only to himself; he inflicts death upon those whom he least considered would be so afflicted.

It is easy to forgive a person his faults when he is dead because in death, he atones for his sins somewhat before the eyes of people who are still living and who have yet to add more on the parchment where their sins are listed.

Very little, really, in life is lost; material things, now and then; money which is material but necessary, often; friends, relatives, sometimes through estrangements. True love never, I believe. Death does not rob us of the essential person we have loved and still love. It deprives us of the physical presence, but never of the spiritual closeness, or of memories.