Quotes About Death

He sleeps. Although his fate was very strange, he lived. He died when he had no longer his angel. The thing came to pass simply, of itself, as the night comes when day is gone.

Yok ettikleri insan?n bir zekas?, hayata güvenen bir akl?, ölüme haz?r olmayan bir ruhu olduÄŸunu hiç düÅŸünmemiÅŸler midir?

All of us, whoever we may be, have our respirable beings. We lack air and we stifle. Then we die. To die for lack of love is horrible. Suffocation of the soul.

Quasimodo then lifted his eye to look upon the gypsy girl, whose body, suspended from the gibbet, he beheld quivering afar, under its white robes, in the last struggles of death; then again he dropped it upon the archdeacon, stretched a shapeless mass at the foot of the tower, and he said with a sob that heaved his deep breast to the bottom, 'Oh-all that I've ever loved!' The Hunchback of Notre Dame

Woe, alas, to the one who shall have loved bodies, forms, appearances only. Death will take everything from him. Try to love souls, you shall find them again

Death does not concern me. He who takes his first step uses perhaps his last shoes. (Halmalo)

It is nothing to die. It is dreadful not to live.

The death agony of the barricade was about to begin. For, since the preceding evening, the two rows of houses in the Rue de la Chanvrerie had become two walls; ferocious walls, doors closed, windows closed, shutters closed. A house is an escarpment, a door is a refusal, a facade is a wall. This wall hears, sees and will not. It might open and save you. No. This wall is a judge. It gazes at you and condemns you. What dismal things are closed houses.

He sleeps although so much he was denied. He lived and when his dear love left him died. It happened of itself, in the easy way that in the morning night time follows day

In the morning I write love letters and in the afternoon I dig graves

At the end of life death is a departure; but at life's beginning a departure is death.

Puesto que no hay remedio, tengamos valor con la muerte. Abracemos esta horrible idea con pecho firme; considerémosla cara a cara. Pidámosle cuenta de lo que es; sepamos qué quiere de nosotros; volvámosla en todos sentidos; descifremos el enigma y miremos de antemano en el sepulcro.

It is wrong to become absorbed in the divine law to such a degree as not to perceive human law. Death belongs to God alone. By what right do men touch that unknown thing?

When we reach out to pluck a flower the stem trembles, seeming both to shrink and to offer itself. The human body has something of this tremor at the moment when the mysterious hand of death reaches out to pluck a soul.

But let those who do not desire a future reflect on this matter. When they say no to progress, it is not the future but themselves that they are condemning. They are giving themselves a sad malady; they are inoculating themselves with the past. There is but one way of rejecting To-morrow, and that is to die.

Ništa je umreti - strašno je ne živeti.

At another time, on receiving a notification of the decease of a gentleman of the country-side, wherein not only the dignities of the dead man, but also the feudal and noble qualifications of all his relatives, spread over an entire page: What a stout back Death has! he exclaimed. What a strange burden of titles is cheerfully imposed on him, and how much wit must men have, in order thus to press the tomb into the service of vanity!

They say that it is, nothing, that one does not suffer, that it is an easy end; that death in this why is very much simplified. Ah! then, what do they call they call this agony of six weeks, this summing up in one day? What then is the anguish of this irreparable day, which is passing so slowly and yet so fast? What is this ladder of tortures which terminates in the scaffold?

J'étais dans la mort; tu m'as remise dans la vie. Toi là, c'est le ciel à côté de moi. Donne-moi ta main, que je touche Dieu!

The four walls of the living redoubt had fallen, hardly could a quivering be detected here and there among the corpses; and thus the French legions, grander than the Roman legions, expired at Mont-Saint-Jean on ground soaked in rain and blood, in the somber wheatfields, at the spot where today at four in the morning, whistling, and gaily whipping up his horse, Joseph drives by with the mail from Nivelles.

With love there is no middle course: it destroys, or else it saves. All human destiny is contained in that dilemma, the choice between destruction and salvation, which is nowhere more implacably posed than in love. Love is life, or it is death. It is the cradle, but also the coffin. One and the same impulse moves the human heart to say yes or no. Of all things God has created it is the human heart that sheds the brightest light, and, alas, the blackest despair.

War has frightful beauties which we have not concealed; it has also, we acknowledge, some hideous features. One of the most surprising is the prompt stripping of the bodies of the dead after the victory. The dawn which follows a battle always rises on naked corpses.

I did not think that it was so monstrous. It is wrong to become absorbed in the divine law to such a degree as not to perceive human law. Death belongs to God alone. By what right do men touch that unknown thing?

The Grave and The Rose The Grave said to the Rose, What of the dews of dawn, Love's flower, what end is theirs? And what of spirits flown, The souls whereon doth close The tomb's mouth unawares? The Rose said to the Grave. The Rose said, In the shade From the dawn's tears is made A perfume faint and strange, Amber and honey sweet. And all the spirits fleet Do suffer a sky-change, More strangely than the dew, To God's own angels new, The Grave said to the Rose