Quotes About Mortality

Why do we argue? Life's so fragile, a successful virus clinging to a speck of mud, suspended in endless nothing.

A live body and a dead body contain the same number of particles. Structurally, there's no discernible difference. Life and death are unquantifiable abstracts. Why should I be concerned?

Truly, whoever we are, wherever we reside, we exist upon the whim of murderers.

It doesn't matter how "successful" each of us is in life. We're all doomed to die. Why can't anyone else see that?

The people that we are when we're alive, that's who we are forever, nipper.

Information is the only thing that can be lost in an imperishable universe. Mind is the only thing that truly dies.

These days, though, he'd lowered his sights and if he thought about what might be after death at all it was in terms of how he'd be remembered, or else how he'd be forgotten.

If anyone stops us, as long as we mumble something pretentious about the glory of death, we should be fine.

Death is its own best friend, and our dreams know it.

I looked at this man. He was in his fifites, mostly bones inside hisblack suit, and gave off an odour, if you were as close up to him as I was, of a long-closed keyboard opened suddenly in an empty house. (73)

I looked at this man. He was in his fifties, mostly bones inside his black suit, and gave off an odour, if you were as close up to him as I was, of a long-closed keyboard opened suddenly in an empty house. (73)

Jesus. I had a dream last night too. You had. I dreamt that my Grandma had just died yesterday. Dear God. And she had died long before I was born. He looked at me with astounded eyes, and felt his neck, and then he patted my knee. Aisy son, he said. Why did I dream her? Because you never met her. The dead you never met die a little bit every day in your head.

We might never rid ourselves of a lingering anxiety regarding our death; this is a kind of tax we pay in return for self-awareness.

Everything worthwhile in your life draws its meaning from the fact you will die.

The meaning of life,' wrote Kafka, reputedly, 'is that it stops.

Let's not mince words: if we are ill, or a loved one dies, this is ultimately a matter of no importance to fate and the machinations of the universe.

There are three deaths. The first is when the body ceases to function. The second is when the body is consigned to the grave. The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time.

Enjoy life, because quick as the wind blows in, it disappears the same way, what I'm hinting at, just like our lives on earth, we appear; and we also depart.

The nearer people approach old age the closer they return to a semblance of childhood, until the time comes for them to depart this life, again like children, neither tired of living nor aware of death.

Life is like a very short visit to a toyshop between birth and death.

I don't think I've ever felt that same kind of peace, the kind of serenity that I felt after acknowledging that maybe I was going to die of this TB.

Everybody dies—some suddenly, some slowly, some painfully, some peacefully. No one can escape death. The point is to make the most of life—enjoy it, celebrate it, learn from it, make sense of it, share it with fellow human beings—so that when death finally comes, it will not be such a terrible thing.

Knowledge does not outlive death. Wealth does.

What is the most amazing thing about the world? 'Every day creatures die, yet the rest live as if immortal.