Quotes About Death

We're all going to die. Alone and miserably. With lots of pain. That's the way life goes. People make promises and don't keep them. They say they care about you and forget you.

Reflecting on something that hurts you only prolongs your pain, and when death is involved, the pain is often compounded by a relentless sense of guilt that attacks the moment you start to heal, as if duration of grief somehow proves the depth of your love for the person you lost.

Just die. It'll end everyone's misery, including your own.

Nothing was easy. Every move, each decision, a matter of life and death. It made for interesting times. Small human lives were so limited. And for that very reason, so fascinating. Shadowed by death, life became immediate. Intense.

Death is not a Hunter's delight. Too final.

Wake the fuck up, Ms. Lane. Dying is overrated. Human sentimentality has twisted it into the ultimate act of love. Biggest load of bullshit in the world. Dying for someone isn't the hard thing. The man that dies escapes. Plain and simple. Game over. End of pain. Alina was the lucky one. Try living for someone. Through it all—good, bad, thick, thin, joy, suffering. That's the hard thing.

Get a little practice. See what it feels like to drive a knife through my heart. Relish it. Watch the light fade from my eyes, stare into my dying, taste it, see how you like it. There's a moment in death that is unlike anything else in all existence.

I can't die like this. I have things to do. My adventure has hardly begun. Everything goes black. I see Death. Ain't so fascinating. It's a sledgehammer.

Death is the final chapter in a book you can't unread. You keep waiting to feel like the person you were before that chapter ended. You never will.

They say if you die in a dream, your heart stops in real life. I don't know if that's true. I've never known anyone who died in a dream to ask. Maybe because they're all dead.

Death on her left. Devil on her right.

Ölürken, geçiÅŸ s?ras?nda, bir an var. YaÅŸam yerini ölüme, dolu yerini boÅŸa b?rak?yor. Bir an. Her ÅŸey çok h?zl?. Geri dön, geri dön, diye ba??rmak istiyorum. Bir dakikaya daha ihtiyac?m var. Bir gülümsemeye daha. Her ÅŸeyi düzeltmek için bir ÅŸansa daha. Ama gitti. Yok art?k. Nereye gitti? Hayata ölümden sonra ne oluyor? Bir yere mi gidiyor, yoksa tamamen mi kayboluyor?

What no one tells you is that when someone you love dies, you lose them twice. Once to death, the second time to acceptance, and you don't walk that long, dark passage between the two alone. Grief takes every shuffling, unwilling step with you, offering a seductive bouquet of memories that can only blossom south of sanity. You can stay there, nose buried in the petals of the past. But you're never really alive again. Spend enough time with ghosts, you become one.

recognize him as such, too. Yes, he had disobeyed his queen. So had many others, who'd never been punished so harshly. Had the crime he'd committed merited a death sentence? There were other Seelie who felt as he did, who wanted a return to

There's really only one question: would you rather have died?" That's an easy one for me. I'd never rather that. Not under any circumstances. I'll take survival at any price. Always.

Don't accuse me of being morbid when I'm merely the product of a culture that buries the bones of the ones they love in pretty, manicured flower gardens so they can keep them nearby and go talk to them whenever they feel troubled or depressed. That's morbid. Not to mention bizarre. Dogs bury bones, too.

Did she actually kill Alina? With her hands? A weapon?" "Why do you ask?" "Everything has degrees." "You think some ways of killing are better?" "I know they are." "Death is death!" "Agreed. But killing is not always murder.

Death is not seductive. It does not come silk-clad and sweet-smelling as I did for my chosen. It is lonely and cold and merciless. It takes everything from you, before it finally takes you.

Dying is overrated. Human sentimentality has twisted it into the ultimate act of love. Biggest load of bullshit in the world. Dying for someone isn't the hard thing. The man that dies escapes. Plain and simple. Game over. End of pain...Try living for someone. Through it all-good, bad, thick, thin, joy, suffering. That's the hard thing.

Whoever it was who'd said life's a bitch didn't know the half of it. Death was the bitch's bigger, badder sister.

Beverly once read a science magazine article about bioluminescence, the natural glow emitted by organisms like fireflies and jellyfish, but she knows the dead also give off a strange illumination, a phosphor that can permanently damage the eyes of the living. Necroluminescence - the light of the vanished. A hindsight produced by the departed body. Your failings backlit by the death of your loved ones.

Who can say what the dead do or do not know? Perhaps the knowledge of one's death, ceaselessly swallowed, is the very food you need to become a ghost.

If they heard Death mounting the stairs at night, footsteps that the teenage Beverly swore she could feel vibrating through the floorboards at three a.m., nobody mentioned this intrusion at breakfast.

Often I wonder to what extent a mortal's love grows from the bedrock of his or her foreknowledge of death, love coiling like a green stem out of that blankness in a way I'll never quite understand. And lately I've been having a terrible thought: Our love affair will end before the world does.