Quotes About Death

Stagnation and inactivity bring spiritual death.

But the love that ends with either suffering or death is not worth the trouble it gives us. And if it must dread death and all suffering, it will inevitably bring us little joy and very much sorrow.

All things are yours and you are Christ's—and Christ is God's. If we live, we live unto God. If we die, we die unto God—whether we live or die, we are God's possession." What more could anyone ask?

Death is someone you see very clearly with eyes in the center of your heart; eyes that see not by reacting to light, but by reacting to a kind of a chill from within the marrow of your own life. And, with those eyes, those interior eyes, open upon that coldness, I lay half asleep and looked at the visitor, death.

Solitude means withdrawal from an artificial and fictional level of being which men, divided by original sin, have fabricated in order to keep peace with concupiscence and death. But by that very fact the solitary finds himself on the level of a more perfect spiritual society—the city of those who have become real enough to confess and glorify God (that is, life) in the teeth of death.

My mother was informing me, by mail, that she was about to die, and would never see me again.

All sorrow, hardship, difficulty, struggle, pain, unhappiness, and ultimately death itself can be traced to rebellion against God's love for us.

I should not really object to dying were it not followed by death.

So generation after generation of men in love with pain and passivity serve out their time in the Zone, silent, redolent of faded sperm, terrified of dying, desperately addicted to the comforts others sell them, however useless, ugly or shallow, willing to have life defined for them by men whose only talent is for death.

The object of life is to make sure you die a weird death. To make sure that, however it finds you, it finds you under very weird circumstances.

a million bureaucrats are diligently plotting death and some of them even know it...

Death has come in the pantry door: stands watching them, iron and patient, with a look that says 'try to tickle me.

Easy. They just let us forget. Give us too much to process, fill up every minute, keep us distracted, it's what the Tube is for, and though it kills me to say it, it's what rock and roll is becoming - just another way to claim our attention, so that beautiful certainty we had starts to fade, and after a while they have us convinced all over again that we really are going to die. And they've got us again.

Man, I want to die, is all,' cried Ploy. 'Don't you know,' said Dahoud, 'that life is the most precious possession you have?' 'Ho, ho,' said Ploy through his tears. 'Why?' 'Because,' said Dahoud, 'without it, you'd be dead.

Shit now is the color white folks are afraid of. Shit is the presence of death, not some abstract-arty character with a scythe but the stiff and rotting corpse inside the whiteman's warm and private own asshole, which is getting pretty intimate. That's what the toilet is for. You see many brown toilets? Nope, toilet's the color of gravestones, classical columns of mausoleums, that white emblems the very emblem of Odorless and Official death.

Death is a debt to nature due, Which I have paid, and so must you.

1904 was the year the American Food and Drug people took the cocaine out of Coca-Cola, which gave us an alcoholic and death oriented generation of Yanks ideally equipped to fight WW II.

Man, I want to die, is all, cried Ploy. Don't you know, said Dahoud, that life is the most precious possession you have?

Every mode of violent death available to Renaissance man, including a lye pit, land mines, a trained falcon with envenom'd talons, is employed. It plays, as Metzger remarked later, like a Road Runner cartoon in blank verse

The Business of the World is Trade and Death, and you must engage with that unpleasantness, as the price of your not-at-all-assur'd Moment of Purity.— Fool.

Yet is Dixon certain, as certain as the lightness he feels now, lightness premonitory of Flying, that far worse happen'd here, to these poor People, as the blood flew and the Children cried, - that at the end no one understood what they said as they died.

Fathers are carriers of the virus of Death, and sons are the infected . . . and, so that the infection may be more certain, Death in its ingenuity has contrived to make the father and son beautiful to each other as Life has made male and female.

The Northern powers are more like administrators, who manipulate other people's history but produce none of their own. They are the stock-jobbers of history, lives are their units of exchange. Lives as they are lived, deaths as they are died, all that is made of flesh, blood, semen, bone, fire, pain, shit, madness, intoxication, visions, everything that has been passing down here forever, is real history.

But Lord Blatherard Osmo was able at last to devote all of his time to Novi Pazar. Early in 1939, he was discovered mysteriously suffocated in a bathtub full of tapioca pudding, at the home of a Certain Viscountess. Some have seen in this the hand of the Firm.