Quotes About Death

Why do the skeletons dance so ecstatically, I wonder. Is it the fall of the world? Is it the dance of death which has been so often heralded? To see millions of skeletons dancing in the snow while the city founders is an awesome sight.

Va a haber más calamidades, más muerte, más desesperación. Ni el menor indicio de cambio por ningún lado. El cáncer del tiempo nos está devorando. Nuestros héroes se han matado o están matándose. Así, que el héroe no es el tiempo, sino la intemporalidad. Debemos marcar el paso, en filas cerradas, hacia la prisión de la muerte. No hay escapatoria. El tiempo no va a cambiar.

Siempre te ríes cuando no debes; te consideran cruel y despiadado, cuando, en realidad, eres simplemente resistente y duradero. Pero, si te ríes cuando los otros ríen y lloras cuando los otros lloran, en ese caso tienes que prepararte para morir como ellos mueren y para vivir como ellos viven. Eso significa estar en lo cierto y llevar la peor parte al mismo tiempo. Significa estar muerto, cuando estás vivo, y estar vivo solo cuando estás muerto.

Everything grows for everybody. Everything dies for everybody, too.

And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler,   Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.

Frost kills the flowers that bloom out of season...

There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead,--the child of our affection,-- But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule. Excerpt from the poem Resignation by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The young may die, but the old must!

Yes, Death brings us again to our friends. They are waiting for us, and we shall not long delay. They have gone before us, and are like the angels in heaven. They stand near the borders of the grave to welcome us, with the countenance of affection, which they wore on earth; yet more lovely, more radiant, more spiritual! O, he spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels!

Every sound reason is on the side of law and order in their insistence that the eternity of joy be reserved for the hereafter, and in their endeavor to subordinate the struggle against death and disease to the never-ceasing requirements of national and international security.

You have known, O Gilgamesh, What interests me, To drink from the Well of Immortality. Which means to make the dead Rise from their graves And the prisoners from their cells The sinners from their sins. I think love's kiss kills our heart of flesh. It is the only way to eternal life, Which should be unbearable if lived Among the dying flowers And the shrieking farewells Of the overstretched arms of our spoiled hopes.

It could go on for years and years, And has, for centuries, For being human holds a special grief Of privacy within the universe That yearns and waits to be retouched By someone who can take away The memory of death.

She spoke as to a child who could not understand All the futility that lay ahead Yet who she knew would go on to repeat Repeat repeat the things men had to learn. The gods gave death to man and kept life for Themselves. That is the only way it is. Cherish your rests; the children you might have; You are a thing that carries so much tiredness.

Time: That which man is always trying to kill, but which ends in killing him.

A fellow does not know how far he can run until he has the hope of life in flight and the knowledge of death in being overtaken. That acts as a goad to urge him on when all other incentives fail.

All men live enveloped in whale-lines. All are born with halters round their necks; but it is only when caught in the swift, sudden turn of death, that mortals realize the silent, subtle, ever-present perils of life. And if you be a philosopher, though seated in the whale-boat, you would not at heart feel one whit more of terror, than though seated before your evening fire with a poker, and not a harpoon, by your side.

Our souls are like those orphans whose unwedded mothers die in bearing them: the secret of our paternity lies in their grave, and we must there to learn it.

Where lies the final harbor, whence we unmoor no more? In what rapt ether sails the world, of which the weariest will never weary? Where is the foundling's father hidden? Our souls are like those orphans whose unwedded mothers die in bearing them: the secret of our paternity lies in their grave, and we must there to learn it.

Old age is always wakeful; as if, the longer linked with life, the less man has to do with aught that looks like death. (moby dick chap 29 p123)

But pity there was none. For all his old age, and his one arm, and his blind eyes, he must die the death and be murdered, in order to light the gay bridals and other merry-makings of men, and also to illuminate the solemn churches that preach unconditional inoffensiveness by all to all.

Of such a letter, Death himself might well have been the post-boy.

But Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs, and even from these dead doubts she gathers her most vital hope. (Moby Dick; Chap 7 p36)

but the reason why the grave-digger made music must have been because there was none in his spade

Start her, now; give 'em the long and strong stroke, Tashtego. Start her, Tash, my boy--start her, all; but keep cool, keep cool--cucumbers is the word--easy, easy--only start her like grim death and grinning devils, and raise the buried dead perpendicular out of their graves, boys--that's all. Start her!