Quotes About Death

she had lost just too much control, time was rushing all around her, these were rapids, and as far ahead as she could see it looked like Brock's stretch of the river, another stage, like sex, children, surgery, further into adulthood perilous and real, into the secret that life is soldiering, that soldiering includes death, those those soldiered for, not yet and often never in on the secret, are always, at every age, children.

That, indeed, the Home Front is something of a fiction and lie, designed, not too subtly, to draw them apart, to subvert love in favor of work, abstraction, required pain, bitter death.

Tío, quiero morirme, es lo único que quiero -gritó Ploy. - ¿No sabes -dijo Dahoud- que la vida es el bien más preciado que tienes? - Jo, jo -soltó Ploy entre lágrimas-. ¿Y eso por qué? - Pues porque sin ella -dijo Dahoud- estarías muerto. - Ah -dijo Ploy.

Even though there is a villain here, serious as death. It is this typical American teenager's own Father, trying episode after episode to kill his son. And the kid knows it. Imagine that.

Here was world of simplicity and certainty no acidhead, no revolutionary anarchist would ever find, a world based on the one and zero of life and death. Minimal, beautiful. The patterns of life and deaths...

Nature does not know extinction; all it knows is transformation. Everything science has taught me, and continues to teach me, strengthens my belief in the continuity of our spiritual existence after death. —WERNHER VON BRAUN

Was that how he'd died, she wondered, among dreams, crushed by the only ikon in the house?

It's nothing he can see or lay hands on-sudden gases, a violence upon the air and no trace afterward...a Word, spoken with no warning into your ear, and then silence forever. Beyond its invisibility, beyond hammerfall and doomcrack, here is its real horror, mocking, promising him death with German and precise confidence, laughing down all of Tantivy's quiet decencies...no, no bullet with fins, Ace...not the Word, the one Word that rips apart the day....

Es el cálido, romántico verano de 1945 y, con rendición o sin ella, persiste el culto de la muerte: acaba de perpetrarse lo que la Abuelita llamaba «un crimen pasional», la técnica preferida en nuestros días para resolver disputas interpersonales, a falta de pasión por cualquier otro aspecto de la vida.

It is the dark, hard, tobacco-starved, headachey, sour-stomached, middle of the day, a million bureaucrats are diligently plotting death and some of them know it, many about now are already onto the second or third pint or highball glass, which produces a certain desperate aura here.

Early in 1939, he was discovered mysteriously suffocated in a bathtub full of tapioca pudding, at the home of a Certain Viscountess.

In this latest War, death was no enemy, but a collaborator. Homosexuality in high places is just a carnal afterthought now, and the real only fucking is done on paper. . . .

Flagstones are slippery with mist. It is the dark, hard, tobacco-starved, headachy, sour-stomach middle of the day, a million bureaucrats are diligently plotting death and some of them even know it, many about now are already into the second or third pint or highball glass, which produces a certain desperate aura here.

If it had been an outright junkyard, probably he could have stuck things out, made a career: the violence that had caused each wreck being infrequent enough, far enough away from him, to be miraculous, as each death, up till the moment of our own, is miraculous.

Don't forget the real business of the War is buying and selling. The murdering and the violence are self-policing, and can be entrusted to non-professionals. The mass nature of wartime death is useful in many ways. It serves as spectacle, as diversion from the real movements of the War. It provides raw material to be recorded into History, so that children may be taught History as sequences of violence, battle after battle, and be more prepared for the adult world.

The moment of assassination is the moment when power and the ignorance of power come together, with Death as validator.

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

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." "Oh," said Ploy. He thought about this for a week.

The history of the old Hereros is one of lost messages. It began in mythical times, when the sly hare who nests in the Moon brought death among men, instead of the Moon's true message. The true message has never come.

a child roaming the night who missed the death before birth as certain outcasts do the dear lulling blankness of the community...

Adieu my dear friends, I have come to this grave Where Insatiate Death in his reaping hath brought me. Till Christ rise again all His children to save, I must lie, as His Word in the Scriptures hath taught me.

LONG, long before Mrs. Lewis cooked for the Burbanks, a tree fell on Mr. Lewis in the woods and killed him in his "prime." Mrs. Lewis hoped to be one with him again in what she called their eternal home, but the suspended relationship left her with a mixed bag of acid sayings, bitter observations and chilly maxims.

Ölü insanlar?n fotoÄŸraflar? neden hep böyle soluk oluyor, diye merak etti Josephine. Bir insan ölür ölmez fotoÄŸraf? da ölüyordu.

What is it with me? Am I absolutely nobody, but merely inordinately vain? I do not know…. But I am most fearfully unhappy. That is all. I am so unhappy that I wish I was dead—yet I should be mad to die when I have not yet lived at all.