Quotes About Mortality

I'll be damned if death wears my sadness as glad rags. 

They whispered to Caesar that he was mortal, then sold daggers at half-price in the grand March sale.

Hold the dark holiday in your palms, Bite it, swallow it and survive, Come out the far black tunnel of el Día de Muerte And be glad, ah so glad you are… alive! Calavera…Calavera…

Kitaplar bize ne tür eÅŸekler ve aptallar olduÄŸumuzu hat?rlatmak içindir. Kitaplar, tören alay? büyük bir gürültü içinde caddede ilerlerken, Sezar'?n kula??na 'Unutma, Sezar, sen de ölümlüsün' diyen pretoryen muhaf?zlar?d?r.

YOU CAN'T DEPEND ON PEOPLE BECAUSE... ...they go away. ...strangers die. ...people you know fairly well die. ...friends die. ...people murder people, like in books. ...your own folks can die. So...

My tunes and numbers are here. They have filled my years, the years when I refused to die. And in order to do that I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, at noon or 3:00 A.M. So as not to be dead.

Important thing is not the me that's lying here, but the me that's sitting on the edge of the bed looking back at me, and the me that's downstairs cooking supper, or out in the garage under the car, or in the library reading. All the new parts, they count. I'm not really dying today. No person ever died that had a family.

How talented was death. How many expressions and manipulations of hand, face, body, no two alike.

I take this continent with me into the grave.

I was never young. Whoever I was then is dead. That's more of your quills. I don't want a hide full, thanks. I have always figured that you die each day and and each day is a is a box, you see, all numbered and neat; but never go back and lift the lids, because you have died a couple thousand times in your life, and that's a lot of corpses, each dead a different way, each with a worse expression. Each of those days is a different you, somebody you don't know or understand or want to understand.

From this outer edge of his life, looking back, there was only one remorse, and that was only that he wished to go on living. Did all dying people feel this way, as if they had never lived? Did life seem that short, indeed, over and done before you took a breath? Did it seem this abrupt and impossible to everyone, or only to himself, here, now, with a few hours left to him for thought and deliberation?

I've tasted every victual and danced every dance; now there's one last tart I haven't bit on, one time I haven't whistled. but I'm not afraid. I'm truly curious. Death won't get a crumb by my mouth I won't keep and savor. So don't you worry over me. Now, all of you go, and let me find my sleep....

The world was bankrupted of ten million fine actions the night he passed on.

The quality of death, like that of life, must be of an infinite variety, and if one has already died once, then what was there to look for in dying for good and all, as he was now?

Once you kill all of us, and you're alone, you'll die! The hate will die. That hate is what moves you, nothing else! That envy moves you. Nothing else! You'll die, inevitably. You're not immortal. You're not even alive, you're nothing but moving hate.

He smelled of moon swamps and old Egyptian bandages. He was something found in museums, wrapped in nicotine linens, sealed in glass. But he was alive, puling like a babe, and shriveling unto death, fast, very fast, before their eyes.

What a dreadful surprise. For everyone knows, is absolutely certain, that nothing will ever happen to me. Others die, I go on. There are no consequences and no responsibilities. Except that there are. But lets not talk about em eh? By the time the consequences catch up to you its too late isn't it?

Don't haggle and nag them; you were so recently of them yourself. They are so confident that they will run on forever. But they won't run on. They don't know that this is all one huge big blazing meteor that makes a pretty fire in space, but that some day it'll have to hit. They see only the blaze, the pretty fire, as you saw it.

Death makes everything else sad. But death itself only scares. If there wasn't death, all the other things wouldn't get tainted.

And when he died, I suddenly realized i wasn't crying for him at all, but for the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again...Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.

The people there were gods and midgets and knew themselves mortal and so the midgets walked tall so as not to embarrass the gods and the gods crouched so as to make the small ones feel at home.

The books are to remind us what asses and fools we are. They're Caesar's praetorian guard, whispering as the parade roars down the avenue, `Remember, Caesar, thou art mortal.

For everyone nowadays knows, absolutely certain, that nothing will ever happen to me. Others die, I go on.

And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn't crying for him at all, but for the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again