Quotes About Death

The life which, if i were still a man with pride, honor, ambition and so forth, would seem like the bottom rung of degredation. It's a negative reality, just like death -- a sort of heaven without the pain and terror of dying.

We are, most of us, sleepwalkers, and we die without ever opening our eyes.

I was lonely amidst a world of things lit up by phosphorescent flashes of cruelty. I was delirious with an energy which could not be unleashed except in the service of death and futility.

This keeping oneself alive, out of a blind urge to defeat death, is in itself a means of sowing death. Every one who has not fully accepted life, who is not incrementing life, is helping to fill the world with death.

How very like Zen is this from Whitman: "Is it lucky to be born? It is just as lucky to die." In summarizing his pages on Whitman, Bucke makes, among others, the following statements: In no man who ever lived was the sense of eternal life so absolute. Fear of death was absent. Neither in health nor in sickness did he show any sign of it, and there is every reason to believe he did not feel it. He had no sense of sin.

Men are lonely and out of communication with one another because all their inventions speak only of death. Death is the automaton which rules the world of activity. Death is silent, because it has no mouth. Death has never expressed anything. Death is wonderful too--after life.

Let the dead eat the dead. Let us living ones dance about the rim of the crater, a last expiring dance, but a dance!

De wiegen der beschaving zijn de verpestende riolen van de wereld, het knekelhuis waarin de stinkende baarmoeders hun bloederige pakjes vlees en been toevertrouwen.

It has been that way ever since the Greeks—a blind fuck in the mud and then a quick spawn and then death.

I will sing while you croak.

The cancer of time is eating us away. Our heroes have killed themselves, or are killing themselves. The hero, then, is not Time, but Timelessness. We must get in step, a lock step, toward the prison of death. There is no escape. The weather will not change.

Doi ucigaÈ™i iubindu-se pân? la moarte, din priviri. Nu este aceasta cea mai splendid? tortur??

Kesin olan tek ÅŸey ÅŸudur: öldüÄŸünde ve dirildiÄŸinde topraÄŸa aitsindir ve topraÄŸa dair ne varsa devredilemez bir biçimde senindir. DoÄŸan?n bir cilvesine dönüÅŸürsün, gölgesiz bir varl??a; bir daha asla ölmeyecek, fakat etraf?ndaki bütün olaylar gibi gelip geçeceksin.

Tanr?m, biraz akl?m?z olsa ölümü düÅŸününce kalk?p sevincimizden dans ederdik! BulduÄŸumuz çarelerden yararlanmay? bilseydik yar?n hepimiz yataklar?m?zda ölebilirdik, ac? çekmeden, huzur içinde, Ölmek istemiyoruz, sorunumuz bu bizim. Tanr? ve yukar?daki çöp tenekelerindeki diÄŸer her ÅŸey bu yüzden var.

Death was more like what we went through in the park: two people walking side by side in the mist, rubbing against trees and bushes, and not a word between them. It was something emptier than the name itself and yet right and peaceful, dignified, if you like.

La oportunidad más maravillosa que ofrece la vida es la de ser humano. Abarca todo el universo. Incluye el conocimiento de la muerte, del que ni siquiera Dios goza.

En el momento en que nace un niño pasa a formar parte de un mundo en que no hay sólo el ritmo de la vida, sino también el ritmo de la muerte.

There was an odor about him which I could not help but be aware of. It was a mélange of bay rum, wet ashes and tabac gris , tinctured with a dash of some elusive, elegant perfume. Later these would resolve themselves into one unmistakable scent—the aroma of death.

We came together in a dance of death and so quickly was I sucked down into the vortex that when I came to the surface again I could not recognize the world. When I found myself loose the music had ceased; the carnival was over and I had been picked clean.

Here all boundaries fade away and the world reveals itself for the mad slaughterhouse that it is. The treadmill stretches way to infinitude, the hatched are closed down tight, logic runs rampant, with bloody cleaver flashing. The air is chill and stagnant, the language apocalyptic. Not an exit sign anywhere; no issue save death. A blind alley at the end of which is a scaffold.

To be sick, to be neurotic, if you like, is to ask for guarantees. The neurotic is the flounder that lies on the bed of the river, securely settled in the mud, waiting to be speared. For him, death is the only certainty, and dread of that grim certainty immobilizes him in a living death far more horrible than the one he imagines but knows nothing about.

Así como la ciudad misma se había convertido en una enorme tumba en que los hombres luchaban para ganarse una muerte decente, así también mi propia vida llegó a parecerse a una tumba que iba construyendo con mi propia muerte.

Convencido de la absoluta seguridad de la muerte, Grover se volvió de repente tremenda y arrolladoramente vivo.

Sedam kraj nje i ona pri?a - cela poplava ra?i. Divlje suši?ave note histerije, perverzije, gube. Ne ?ujem ni re?, zato što je lepa i ja je volim, i sada sam sre?an i želim umreti.