Quotes About Death

Todavía perdura este patio la tormenta del combate; es visible el espanto; las convulsiones de la refriega se han quedado petrificadas en ese lugar; los seres están vivos, y luego muertos; fue ayer. Las paredes agonizan, las piedras se caen, las brechas vocean; los agujeros son llagas; los árboles inclinados y estremecidos parecen esforzarse por escapar.

Frères, qui meurt ici meurt dans le rayonnement de l'avenir, et nous entrons dans une tombe toute pénétrée d'aurore.

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. a

Me acuerdo de haber leído en cierto libro que todos los hombres están condenados a muerte a plazos indefinidos.

bütün insanlar günü belirsiz bir ölüme mahkûmdurlar

The stem, when the hand is stretched out to pluck the flower, quivers, and seems at once to shrink back, and present itself. The human body has something of this trepidation at the moment when the mysterious fingers of death are about to gather the soul.

Dying is nothing; what's terrible is not to live.

You have done well to come and look at a man who is on the point of death. It is well that there should be witnesses at that moment.

You have done well to come and look at a man who is on the point of death. It is well that there should be witnesses at that moment. One has one's caprices; I should have liked to last until the dawn, but I know that I shall hardly live three hours. It will be night then. What does it matter, after all? Dying is a simple affair. One has no need of the light for that. So be it. I shall die by starlight.

Ah, s? fii culcat al?turi de ea în acelaÈ™i mormânt, mân? în mân?, È™i din când în când, în întuneric, s? ne mângâiem încet un deget. VeÈ™nicia mea s-ar mulÈ›umi cu atât.

Death is the entrance into the great light.

The tomb is not a blind alley: it is a thoroughfare. It closes on the twilight. It opens on the dawn.

Examination was the only solace. Instead of looking away from heartache, you needed to crawl inside of it, wear it like a warm coat on a cold day. There was peace in loss, beauty in death, freedom in regret.

Her father was dying. Nothing could change that. Words were like pennies, fallen into corners and down the cracks, not worth the effort of collecting.

Memories are who we are, Tul. In the end, that's all the luggage you take with you. Love and memories are what last. That's why your life flashes before your eyes when you die—you're picking the memories you want. It's like packing.

I look at him, loving this child of mine and knowing my death will devastate him. I don't want him to watch me die by degrees. I don't want that for his daughters, either. I know what it is like; some images, once seen, can never be forgotten. I want them to remember me as I am, not as I will be when the cancer has had its way.

In literature, death was many things—a message, catharsis, retribution

She saw how death impacted people, saw the glazed look in their eyes, the way they shook their heads, the way their sentences broke in half as if they couldn't decide if silence or words would release them from sorrow.

She is angry. And angry people make mistakes in war and die.

Hey, Daddy," she whispered. It was a split second before she realized that she'd expected an answer. But, of course, there wasn't one. His heart—the one that had loved her so well—had finally given up.

She'd even thought she was ready for it—this beginning of the end—but now she saw her naïveté. There was no "ready" for death, especially not when it came for a young man you loved.

It is not so much about who my father was, this advice; it is what life is about. What death does to you. When I look down, of course she is not moving, her skin is cold, and I know she did not really speak to me. But she did. And so I do what I must. I stand up, feeling out my new role. I am a motherless daughter now, a sisterless woman. There is no one left of the family I was born into; there is only the family I have made.

What is passion? It is surely the becoming of a person. . . . In passion, the body and the spirit seek expression . . . The more extreme and the more expressed that passion is, the more unbearable does life seem without it. It reminds us that if passion dies or is denied, we are partly dead and that soon, come what may, we will be wholly so.

She knew about death, about the grief that ripped you apart and left you broken forever.