Quotes About Death

Tragedy is when someone ends up dead. Everything else is just a bump in the road.

The fish does not die with regrets because the fish cannot love. I die with regrets, and yet I am glad I am not a fish.

All of these teeth had once been in real, live people. They had talked and smiled and eaten and sang and cursed and prayed. They had brushed and flossed and died. In English class, we read poems about death, but here, right in front of me was a poem about death too.

She was pretty and smart, which makes her death a tragedy. She was poor and black, which means people say they saw it coming.

On Earth, Liz was constantly occupied with studying and finding a college and a career and all those other things that the adults in her life deemed terribly important. Since she had died, everything she was doing on Earth had seemed entirely meaningless. From Liz's point of view, the question of what her life would be was now definitively answered. The story of her life is short and pointless: There once was a girl who got hit by a car and died. The end.

She had once read in a book about consciousness that over the years, the human brain makes an AI version of your loved ones. The brain collects data, and within your brain, you host a virtual version of that person. Upon the person's death, your brain still believes the virtual person exists, because, in a sense, the person still does. After a while, though, the memory fades, and each year, you are left with an increasingly diminished version of the AI

Visto che siamo al mondo, stiamo tutti morendo.

He had never seen anything die before and so, he could not be certain that she was dying. And yet, somewhere deep inside himself, he felt a recognition and then a reckoning: this was death, and he would die, and his mother would die, and everyone you ever met and ever loved would die, and maybe it would happen when you or they were old, but maybe not. To know this was unbearable: it was a fact too large for a nine-year-old avatar to contain.

You are dying. No, that came out wrong. What you meant to express was the existential grief that comes with the knowledge that all things die. You are not dying, except insofar as you have always been dying.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

The best you can wish for anyone is a video game death. Which is to say, spectacular and brief.

The best you can wish for anyone, Sam decided, is a video game death. Which is to say, spectacular and brief.

Living, it seemed to her, was the acquiring of bad habits. Dying, the process of rescinding them.

EMILY MARKS DAEDALUS 1875-1909 SHE HATH DIED OF DYSENTERY

The top one in the pile is a young-adult fantasy novel in which the main character is dead. Ugh, A.J. thinks. Two of his least favorite things (postmortem narrators and young-adult novels) in one book.

She was pretty and smart, which makes her death a tragedy.

To begin, it is narrated by Death!

He looked like a charcoal drawing of a man. In death, he was blacks and whites.

A.J. runs their credit cards and concludes that a theft is an acceptable social loss while a death is an isolating one.

Your music is the music of death.

True religion is not a meditation on death, but a meditation on life.

It's taken years for me to understand that dying doesn't end the story; it transforms it. Edits, rewrites, the blur, aand epiphany of one-way dialogue. Most of us wander in and out of one another's lives until not death, but distance, does us part-- time and space and heart's weariness are the blander executioners or human connection.

And yet I sensed that I had not just been pummeled by death but reshaped by it, poised now at some crucial junction between darkness and endurance, which is the realist's version of hope.

IT'S TAKEN YEARS FOR ME TO UNDERSTAND THAT dying doesn't end the story; it transforms it. Edits, rewrites, the blur and epiphany of one-way dialogue. Most of us wander in and out of one another's lives until not death, but distance, does us part—time and space and the heart's weariness are the blander executioners of human connection.