Quotes About Death

But Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs, and even from these dead doubts she gathers her most vital hope.

For every one knows that this earthly air, whether ashore or afloat, is terribly infected with the nameless miseries of the numberless mortals who have died exhaling it;

Gelgit çekilmesinde ölen adamlar vard?r, baz?lar? cezirde, diÄŸerleri ise med halinin zirvesinde ölürler. Kendimi köpüklere bat?r?lm??, çatlamak üzere olan dalga gibi hissediyorum...

I was thunderstruck. For an instant I stood like the man who, pipe in mouth, was killed one cloudless afternoon long ago in Virginia, by a summer lightning; at his own warm open window he was killed, and remained leaning out there upon the dreamy afternoon, till some one touched him, when he fell.

As strange misgrown masses gather in the knot-holes of the noblest oaks when prostate, so from the points which the whale's eyes had once occupied, now protruded blind bulbs, horribly pitiable to see. 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.

I joy that Death is this Democrat; and hopeless of all other real and permanent democracies, still hug the thought, that though in life some heads are crowned with gold, and some bound round with thorns, yet chisel them how they will, head-stones are all alike.

And the drawing near of Death, which alike levels all, alike impresses all with a last revelation, which only an author from the dead could adequately tell.

Why all the living so strive to hush all the dead; wherefore but the rumor of a knocking in a tomb will terrify a whole city.

Even death may prove unreal at last and stoics be astounded into heaven. Then keep thy heart, though yet but ill-resigned, Clarel, thy heart, the issues there but mind. That like the crocus budding through the snow, that like a swimmer rising from the deep, that like a burning secret which doth go. Even from the bosom that would hoard and keep, emerge thou mayst from the last whelming sea and prove that death but routs life into victory.

The ultimate justification of mathematics lies beyond mathematics and yet in it; the divine end of Being lies beyond Love and yet is Love--oh, shining spouse, oh dark death, strange confusion of spheres.

No one's death comes to pass without making some impression, and those close to the deacesed inherit part of the liberated soul and become richer in their humanities.

Thorolf took possession of land between Staf River and Thors River, and called it Thorsness. He held the mountain on that headland so sacred that he called it Helgafell and no one was allowed even to look at it unless he'd washed himself first. So holy was the mountain, no living creature there, man or beast, could be harmed until they left of their own accord. Thorolf and his kinsmen all believed that they would go into the mountain when they died.

In peacetime it is sons who bury their fathers Ã¢â'¬â€œ but in times of war, it is fathers who bury their sons.

La muerte es para el hombre el más deseado refugio.

The final strands in the life of Pherentime were woven with misery, for as soon as she achieved her revenge on the Barkanians, she left Libya and returned to Egypt, where she died a miserable death from worms which teemed within her body and crawled out from it while she still lived. Thus the gods manifest their resentment against humans who execute vengeance violently and excessively.

When a child is born to them, his relatives sit around and him and grieve over all the evils he will have to endure later, recounting all the things humans must suffer. But when someone dies, they have fun and take pleasure in burying him in the ground, reciting over him all the evils he has escaped and how he is now in a state of complete bliss.

Dans la cour de l'hôpital éclairée par ce soleil de juin qui devenait la pire injure au malheur, je compris, pour la première fois car quand Stéphane l'avait dit je n'avais pas voulu le croire, que Muzil allait mourir, incessament sous peu, et cette certitude me défigura dans le regard des passants qui me croisaient, ma face en bouille s'écoulait dans mes pleurs et volait en morceaux dans mes cris, j'étais fou de douleur, j'étais le Cri de Munch.

Let me put it thus: that from the height of Weissenstein I saw, as it were, my religion. I mean, humility, the fear of death, the terror of height and of distance, the glory of God, the infinite potentiality of reception whence springs that divine thirst of the soul; my aspiration also towards completion, and my confidence in the dual destiny.

The reason the Dead do not return nowadays is the boredom of it.

It's the living who struggle to accept death.

I'm sure you've heard people use the term, You just don't get it. Well, I figured out the 'it' is the point in life. I believe I was supposed to have been there when my father died, but it was a point in life I just didn't get.

That's the detail of the dead woman I always remember: her bare left foot, along with packets of Top Ramen and a torn box of cat food strewn about as plastic bags danced in the wind of passing cars. I always think how, when she left the house that day, the last thing on that woman's mind must have been the possibility of dying on the pavement with dried noodles crowning her head. Maybe if she had paid more attention to detail, like the oncoming car, she would have made it home to feed her cat.

Come, Friend, you too must die. Why moan about it so? Even Patroclus died, a far, far better man than you. And look, you see how handsome and powerful I am? The son of a great man, the mother who gave me life-- A deathless goddess. But even for me, I tell you, Death and the strong force of fate are waiting. There will come a dawn or sunset or high noon When a man will take my life in battle too-- flinging a spear perhaps Or whipping a deadly arrow off his bow.

Rage - Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus' son Achilles, murderous, doomed, that cost the Achaeans countless losses, hurling down to the House of Death so many sturdy souls, great fighters' souls, but made their bodies carrion, feasts for the dogs and birds, and the will of Zeus was moving toward its end. Begin, Muse, when the two first broke and clashed, Agamemnon lord of men and brilliant Achilles.