Quotes About Mortality

But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long-preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust; The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.

But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.

Like the vain curlings of the watery maze, Which in smooth streams a sinking weight does raise, So Man, declining always, disappears In the weak circles of increasing years; And his short tumults of themselves compose, While flowing Time above his head does close.

You're going to die." I tell her this not to be cruel, but out of compassion. It's the uncertainty of things that tears our souls apart. She still thinks this is a dream, but her eyes are focused now. My words are working their way through her broken mind.

The thing we know is that humanity has a hundred per cent mortality rate. We all die. But the facts don't matter – we can't bear to lose the people we love, and it doesn't quite register about the billions who die, or even about our own coming deaths. We don't experience our own death the way we experience the deaths of those we love.

You are a human being. And that's and unstable condition that ends badly for all of us.

It is foolish to waste lamentations upon the closing phase of human life. Noble spirits yield themselves willingly to the successively falling shades which carry them to a better world or to oblivion.

Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery.

For every American who died, the Japanese lost 6 people, the Germans 11, and the Russians 92.

In the calendar year 1943, when 70,000 Western servicemen, including bomber crews, died fighting Germany, two million Russian soldiers were killed, nearly thirty times the number.

we could all die without regretting life.'35

In fact, I didn't really want to have final words at all, unless they involved something like, "At last, I have transcended beyond the boundaries of my frail human existence.

I'd always thought "die" would have more symmetry in the last line, but when I'd brought it up to my parents, they'd accused me of being needlessly fatalistic.

You've been listening to the adagio from Beethoven's 7th Symphony. I think Ludwig pretty much summed up death in this one. You know, he had lost just about all his hearing when he wrote it, and I've often wondered if that didn't help him tune into the final silence of the great beyond.

That's really what all books are, isn't it? I mean, lists of secrets and things you only wish you'd done - a sort of deathbed confession where you're trying to get it all out while the lights are still on.

And if we were stuck here forever - and maybe this was just a naturally morbid thought for a teenage boy- I wondered who among us would die first and who ultimately would be left alone.

Nonsense. You aren't alive to begin with," I pointed out. "Suck it up and make the best of it, Milo. The future is bright, I assure you." "We come into existence, and we float through space, doomed, until we all die horribly. No reason to live at all." Milo the busboy wept uncontrollably. He probably knew more than I did, but who can say?

If you wake up feeling no pain, you know you're dead. (Russian expression)

He also thinks death is important. How can it be? It's the most commonplace thing on Earth, the

Nu, jaren later, zie ik zelf hoe idioot verlegen ik was. Geen wonder dat verlegen wezens zoals wij uitsterven. Wij waren nog slechts schaduwen, die voor zonsondergang nog even lang werden om daarna helemaal te verdwijnen. Ik ben ook verdwenen. Niemand weet dat ik nog leef.

The blades were positioned at an angle–and as they entered his body, the arrow rotated and bored in like a screw, mutilating the tissue, cutting through blood vessels and shattering bone. Aplegatt lurched forward onto his horse's neck and slid to the ground, limp as a sack of wool. The sand on the road was hot, heated up so much by the sun that it was painful to the touch. The messenger didn't feel it. He died at once.

The Sword of Destiny has two edges. You are one of them. The other is... Death

Your mother gives birth to you only once and only once do you die," the witcher said calmly.

Il vigliacco muore cento volte. L'uomo coraggioso una volta sola.