Quotes About Death

We never even slowed them. Quick, whatever happened to subtlety? He could see a sliver of sky, could see the wyval wheeling round up there, eager to descend and feed. Grandma, you always said don't reach too far. Close your dead eyes now, and remember, I loved you so. He left his body, winged skyward.

Children are dying.' Lull nodded. 'That's a succinct summary of humankind, I'd say. Who needs tomes and volumes of history? Children are dying. The injustices of the world hide in those three words.

A thousand other deaths, ' he whispered, so low that only Baruk and Rake heard him, 'would not have satisfied me. But I'll settle for this one.

There is something profoundly cynical, my friends, in the notion of paradise after death. The lure is evasion. The promise is excusative. One need not accept responsibility for the world as it is, and by extension, one need do nothing about it.

Their power comes, as Monok Ochem said, from layers. Stone shaped into tools and weapons. Air shaped by throats. Minds that discovered, faint as flickering fires in the sky, the recognition of oblivion, of an end…to life, to love. Eyes that witnessed the struggle to survive, and saw with wonder its inevitable failure. To know and to understand that we must all die, Trull Sengar, is not to worship death. To know and to understand is itself magic, for it made us stand tall.

if nature must win in the end, then let the death of our kind be sweet and slow. So sweet, so slow, that we do not even notice. Let us fade and dwindle in our tyranny, from world to continent, from continent to country, from country to city, city to neighbourhood, to home, to the ground under our feet, and finally down to the pointless triumphs inside each of our skulls.

Thus, I die a wise man, not a fool. Is there any difference? I still die, after all. No, there is. I can feel it. That difference — I have cast off my chains. I have cast them off!

I am Hood's Herald - do you dare challenge a servant of the Lord of death?' The T'lan Imass's desiccated lips peeled back. 'Why would we hesitate, Jaghut? Now ask of your lord, does he dare challenge us?

Sweat and death clung to the air thick as gauze.

Rush to death. The longer one lives, the less valued is that life. What is that?

There is no such place, Destriant. Even in isolation we were assailed – by our own doubts, by all the flavours of grief and despair. You and the Mortal Sword and the Shield Anvil, you have led us back into the living world – we have come from a place of death, but now we shall take our place among the peoples of this world. It is right that we do so.

It's what being a soldier is all about. That is what I have seen since we found them. You do not choose your family, and sometimes there's trouble in that family, but you don't choose.' 'But they did. They chose to be soldiers.' 'And then they come face to face with death, Saddic. That is the blood tie, and it makes a knot not even dying can cut.

The named soldier – dead, melted wax – demands a response among the living . . . a response no-one can make. Names are no comfort, they're a call to answer the unanswerable. Why did she die, not him? Why do the survivors remain anonymous – as if cursed – while the dead are revered? Why do we cling to what we lose while we ignore what we still hold?

Blend walked into K'rul's Bar and found it empty, save for the hunched figure of the historian, who sat at his chosen table, staring at the stained, pitted wood. She walked over and looked down at him. 'Who died?' Duiker did not look up. 'Not who, Blend. More like what. What died? More, I think, than we'll ever know.

Death's precipice, whether first glimpsed from afar or discovered with the next step, was ever a surprise. A promise of the sudden cessation of questions, yet there were no answers waiting beyond. Cessation would have to be enough. And so it must be for every mortal. Even as we hunger for resolution. Or, even more delusional: redemption.

An unending suicide note cannot but be a proclamation on the worth of living.

You mean, a little bit of wholesale slaughter is all right, Sergeant?

Dying left no details behind, after all. And most certainly, nothing like absolution awaited the fallen. Absolution comes from the living, not the dead, and, as Hedge well knew, it has to be earned

Children are dying." Lull nodded. "That's a succinct summary of humankind, I'd say. Who needs tomes and volumes of history? Children are dying. The injustices of the world hide in those three words.

Survivors do not mourn together. They each mourn alone, even when in the same place. Grief is the most solitary of all feelings. Grief isolates, and every ritual, every gesture, every embrace, is a hopeless effort to break through that isolation. None of it works. The forms crumble and dissolve. To face death is to stand alone.

If this city is to die, it won't be because of the men on the hills, it will be because of the people in the valley. When they're content to live with death, to become what the men on the hills want them to be, then Sarajevo will die.

He's been asleep since the war began. He knows this now. In defending himself from death he lost his grip on life. He thinks of Emina, risking her life to deliver expired pills to someone she's never met. Of the young man who ran into the street to save her when she was shot. Of the cellist who plays for those killed in a mortar attack. He could run now, but he doesn't.

Surely she wouldn't die if she went a few days without water. It might teach her a lesson. It's a pleasing but pointless thought. As much as he might regret it, she was right, he made her a promise.

I'm afraid of everything, of dying, of not dying. I'm afraid that it will stay like this forever, that this war isn't a war, but just how life will be.