Quotes About Death

But I'm not dead! Tereza cried. I can still feel! So can we, the corpses laughed.

Extremes means borders beyond which life ends, and a passion for extremism, in art and in politics, is a veiled longing for death.

Even a life of suffering has a mysterious value. Even a life on the threshold of death is a thing of splendor. Anyone who has not looked death in the face does not know this, but I know it ...

Even though man himself is mortal, he can imagine neither the end of space nor of time nor of history nor of a people, for he always lives in an illusory infinitude. Those who are fascinated by the idea of progress do not suspect that everything moving forward is at the same time bringing the end nearer and that joyous watchwords like 'forward' and 'farther' are the lascivious voice of death urging us to hasten to it.

You know, it's really very peculiar. To be mortal is the most basic human experience, and yet man has never been able to accept it, grasp it, and behave accordingly. Man doesn't know how to be mortal. And when he dies, he doesn't even know how to be dead.

extremes mean borders beyond which life ends…and a passion for extremism is a veiled longing for death.

When a person is clubbed violently on the head, he collapses and stops breathing. Some day, he will stop breathing anyway.

Suicide is worse than murder. One can murder for vengeance or out of greed, but even greed is the expression of a perverted love of life. But to commit suicide is to throw one's life down contemptuously at God's feet

Al final del verdadero amor está la muerte y sólo un amor que termina en muerte es amor

He looks at Mama out of the corner of his eye, again surprised by how little she is. As if all of her life has been a slow process of shrinkage. But just what is that shrinkage? Is it the real shrinkage of a person abandoning his adult dimensions and starting on the long journey through old age and death toward distances where there is only a nothingness without dimension?

When graves are covered with stones, the dead can no longer get out. But the dead can't go out anyway! What difference does it make whether they're covered with soil or stones?

Those who are fascinated by the idea of progress do not suspect that everything moving forward is at the same time bringing the end nearer and that joyous watchwords like forward and farther are the lascivious voice of death urging us to hasten to it. (If fascination with the word forward has become universal, isn't it mainly because death is already speaking to us from nearby?)

Extremes mean borders beyond which life ends, and a passion for extremism, in art and in politics, is a vailed longing for death.

The physical contact with people who struck and trampled and killed one another seemed far worse to him than a solitary death in the purity of the waters.

Misery and pride. 'On horseback, death and a peacock'.

Extremes mean borders beyond which life ends, and a passion for extremism in art and in politics is a veiled longing for death.

The crematory fire is the only way our bodies can escape them. It's the absolute death.

To be mortal is the most basic human experience, and yet man has never been able to accept it, grasp it, and behave accordingly. Man doesn't know hot to be mortal. And when he dies, he doesn't even know hot to be dead.

What drove such people to their sinister occupations? Spite? Certainly, but also the desire for order. Because the desire for order tries to transform the human world into an inorganic reign in which everything goes well, everything functions as a subject of an impersonal will. The desire for order is at the same time a desire for death, because life is a perpetual violation of order. Or, inversely, the desire for order is a virtuous pretext by which man's hatred for man justifies its crimes.

That's how it is: even in the throes of death, man is always on stage. And even 'the plainest' of them, the least exhibitionist, because it's not always the man himself who climbs on stage. If he doesn't do it, someone will put him there. That is his fate as a man.

In death, Franz at last belonged to his wife. He belonged to her as he had never belonged to her before. Marie-Claude took care of everything: she saw to the funeral, sent out announcements, bought the wreaths, and had a black dress made - a wedding dress, in reality. Yes, a husband's funeral is a wife's true wedding! The climax of her life's work! The reward of her sufferings!

The moment Kafka attracts more attenetion than Joseph K., Kafka's posthumous death begins.

The cemetery was vanity transmogrified into stone. Instead of growing more sensible in death, the inhabitants of the cemetery were sillier than they had been in life.

A??r? uçlar, ard?nda yaÅŸam?n sona erdiÄŸi s?n?rlar demektir ve sanatta da politikada da, a??r?l??a duyulan tutku, ölüme duyulan örtük bir özlemdir asl?nda.