Quotes About Cemetery

That this city has second lines - it's something I'm proud of. When the bands come back from the cemetery, they'll play something up - something like 'I'll Be Glad When You're Dead (You Rascal You)' - that will bring the people back to life.

I remember calling the council's cemetery department to ask about body decomposition in different soil types. Once they had verified that I was a novelist and not a sicko, they were extremely helpful.

La mémoire des hommes est un cimetière abandonné, où gisent sans honneurs des morts qu'ils ont cessé de chérir.

Ä°nsanlar?n pek çoÄŸunun bellekleri, sevmekten vazgeçtikleri ölülerinin sessiz sedas?z yatt?klar? terk edilmiÅŸ mezarl?klard?r. unutulmayan ac? unutkanl?klar?na yönelen bir küfürdür.

Well," her husband said, "seems he don't agree." Years—many years—later when he took his granddaughter for a picnic in the cemetery with a Negro gardener or two along to clean up, William Howland talked about his wife Lorena. "There was such a light to her," he said, "all over her. I used to think

In the days when I set off on month-long bicycle trips across France, my greatest pleasure was to stop in country cemeteries, to stretch out between two graves, and to smoke for hours on end. I think of those days as the most active period of my life.

vremea când o porneam cu bicicleta, luni în È™ir, prin FranÈ›a, cea mai mare pl?cere a mea era s? m? opresc în cimitire de È›ar?, s? m? întind între dou? morminte È™i s? fumez aÈ™a ore întregi. M? gândesc la asta ca la perioada cea mai activ? din viaÈ›a mea.

I was alone in that cemetery overlooking the village when a pregnant woman came in. I left at once, in order not to look at this corpse-bearer at close range, nor to ruminate upon the contrast between an aggressive womb and the timeworn tombs—between a false promise and the end of all promises.

my greatest pleasure was to stop in country cemeteries, to stretch out between two graves, and to smoke for hours on end.

The past was but the cemetery of our illusions: one simply stubbed one's toes on the gravestones.

The dead were buried above ground, the loose soil heaped around them. The heavy rains of the monsoon months softened the mounds, so that they formed outlines of the bodies within them, as if this small cemetery beside the military airfield were doing its best to resurrect a few of the millions who had died in the war. Here and there an arm or a foot protruded from the graves, the limbs of restless sleepers struggling beneath their brown quilts.

I can't count how many of my friends are in the cemetery at Normandy, the heroes are still there, the real heroes.

It's not a graveyard, Mr Watson, it's a cemetery.

Well, let me tell you, ants are the dominant insects. They make up as much as a quarter of the biomass of all insects in the world. They are the principal predators. They're the cemetery workers.

Se pot da multe exemple de construcÅ£ii f?r? sens. Cea mai reuÅŸit? este construcÅ£ia unui gard de cimitir, cei care sunt în?untru oricum nu mai pot ieÅŸi, iar cei de afar? oricum nu vor s? intre

Si uno busca tranquilidad, silencio y serenidad, que no lo busque en su vida ya que encontrará todo y más en el cementerio.

Hey police? I just saw the world's oldest, slowest kid climbing into Pleasantview Cemetery. Looked like he was dying to get in. Yeah, looked like a grave matter to me. Kidding? Oh no, I'm in dead earnest. Maybe you ought to dig into it.

Yes, yes, I know. In the cemetery, under the shadow of the cypresses, among the haunted tombs..." Sal Qin sighed and shook her head. "Why you couldn't have picked a simple coffeehouse to meet in I'll never know." "Coffeehouses are busy. It's nice and quiet among the graves," Albert said.

The gravedigger looks like Santa Claus, and I don't believe for a minute he doesn't know it. With his long white beard and stout build, he has to know the effect of wearing a red and white anorak and how inappropriate the whole getup looks in the Mount Zion Cemetery.

In China there is a holiday around the death of your ancestors where everyone goes to the cemetery. It's a celebratory thing. It's very colorful.

My closest friend, who died not long ago, is buried near Marx's grave in Highgate cemetery, so I see the gaggle of admirers laying roses at the foot of his tombstone regularly. I have never been tempted to leave flowers there myself. Great theories, shame about the practice. Marx did many things. But inventing class was not one of them.

And then there is the spring park, damp as if freshly peeled, sweet greenhouse, green cemetery with no dead in it—except, in some shaded woods, under some years of leaves and rotted cones, the body of a warbler like a whole note fallen from the sky—my old love for him, like a songbird's rib cage picked clean.

Immediately the sounds of the street below grew detached, distant, the meaningless echoes of urban voices whose urgent notes reached but held no sway over the park-like necropolis within. From where I stood, the cemetery seemed to have no end. It stretched out before me, a city in its own right, its myriad markers windowless tenements in miniature, laid out in still symmetry, long boulevards of the dead.

Left love behind many years ago. Now it rests under a cross in the cemetery in Tombstone.