Quotes About Mortality

Drunk at 20, wrecked at 30, dead at 40. Drunk at 21, human at 31, mellow at 41, dead at 51.

But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat's shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand. So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight. *

And like most intellectuals who don't find faith convenient," he continued coldly, "like Napoleon and Oscar Wilde and the rest of your type, you'll yell loudly for a priest on your death-bed.

You can't live forever, you can't live forever.

In this state he considered that he would one day accomplish some quit subtle thing that the elect would deem worthy and, passing on, would join the dimmer stars in a nebulous, indeterminate heaven halfway between death and immortality

I knew I wasn't the picture of health, but I didn't think I was headed for the last roundup.

A person lives for years, touches so many people, and then at the end winds up just a small picture and a few paragraphs in the paper, the paper gets thrown away, and it's all over.

All he was doing was just sitting around killing time, looking at the birds and waiting to die.

Mortality rates in the United States fell by 40% from 1900 to 1940 and life expectancy rose from forty-seven to sixty-three, note researchers David M. Cutler and Grant Miller.

At the end of April 2020, low-income and middle-income countries, which have 84% of the world's population, were home to just 14% of the world's known deaths from Covid-19.

Fortunately, there is more to life than death. There is for one thing, fiction. A thousand thousand characters to be sent marching out into the world to divert time from its forward gallop to the terrible horizon.

Because lurking somewhere beneath the surface of your brain is a vision of loneliness, and it will be a terrible moment when it breaks through, and you realise that your future is not a green pastures, but the knackers yard. We are all separate people, and we are all alone. It is a ridiculous thing to say that no man is an island. We are all islands. You can die, and Gerry won't. Gerry can die, and you won't. Our lives just go on, separate as they have always been.

Pronto se dirá de vosotros lo que suele ahora decirse de nosotros, murieron!!

No hay mayor fatuidad que creerse inmortal en la memoria frágil de los hombres. Gloria al olvido, que siempre triunfa.

FIRST WATCHER Why do people die? SECOND WATCHER Perhaps because they don't dream enough...

And leaning out the window, enjoying the day above the varying volume of the entire city, only one thought swells my soul – the intimate will to die, to finish, not to see more light over any city, not to think, not to feel, to leave behind like wrapping paper the course of the sun and the days, to rid myself, at the edge of the grand bed, as of a heavy suit, of the involuntary effort to be.

Tomorrow I too - this feeling and thinking soul, the universe I am to myself - yes, tomorrow I too will be someone who no longer walks the streets, someone others will evoke with a vague: 'I wonder what's become of him?' And everything I do, everything I feel, everything I experience, will be just one less passer-by on the daily streets of some city or other.

Triste de quem é feliz ! Vive porque a vida dura. Nada na alma lhe diz Mais que a lição da raiz Ter por vida a sepultura.

Si después de morir , quieres escribir mi biografía No hay nada más sencillo. Tiene sólo dos fechas : la de mi nacimiento y la de mi muerte. Entre una y otra todos los días son míos.

É talvez o último dia da minha vida. Saudei o sol, levantando a mão direita, Mas não o saudei, dizendo-lhe adeus, Fiz sinal de gostar de o ver antes: mais nada.

of having forgotten the colour of loves and the taste of hatreds. We thought we were immortal.

Mankind is a postponed corpse that breeds.

Nada fica de nada. Nada somos. Um pouco ao sol e ao ar nos atrasamos Da irrespirável treva que nos pese Da húmida terra imposta, Cadáveres adiados que procriam. Leis feitas, 'státuas vistas, odes findas - Tudo tem cova sua. Se nós, carnes A que um íntimo sol dá sangue, temos Poente, porque não elas? Somos contos contando contos, nada.

Life would be unbearable if we were conscious of it. Fortunately we're not. We live as unconsciously, as uselessly and as pointlessly as animals, and if we anticipate death, which presumably (though not assuredly) they don't, we anticipate it through so many distractions, diversions and ways of forgetting that we can hardly say we think about it.