Quotes About Mortality

My mother, Abra, had taught me that all people are made from the same dust. When our days here are gone, all men and women enter the same garden.

Those of us lucky enough to make it through the multitude of possible diseases and accidents get old. We get tired. We close our eyes." "And then? Where are we then?" Silly to ask him as though he knew, but in fact the doctor didn't hesitate. He took Elinor's hand and placed it on his chest, in the place where he knew his heart to be. "There.

Don't think this won't happen to you,' she hissed at all the pretty young girls passing by. 'Youth is fleeting. It's nothing but a dream. I'm where you're going. I'm what you'll be.

Unable are the Loved to die, for Love is Immortality," the boy said. When he saw the way Jet was looking at him he laughed. "I didn't come up with that, Emily Dickinson

Lately, she's been wondering if perhaps when the living become the dead they leave an empty space behind, a hollow that no one else can fill. She was lucky once, for a very brief time. Maybe she should just be grateful for that.

He could have left out the fact that one had but a few hours to live, while the other had another life entirely still before him. This one. With her arms around her

Some vestige of his race or of his sex made him think, whenever he looked out across the ocean: As it was before me and as it will be long after I'm gone. For the second time today, he touched his thumb to his fingertips. He could make it to the 1980s or 1990s, perhaps even to the next century, when the new baby would be grown, maybe with children of his or her own. But even with the best of luck, it would not be equal to the time he'd already spent.

Mr. Persichetti knew that six weeks before its time and with a good thirty-minute ride to the hospital once the ambulance came (would it ever come?), the baby would most likely not survive, would

To be made of flesh was humiliation.

You're dead and you have to accept it.

She look like she ain't long for this world but dressed well for the next.

Ain't nothing wrong with Shug Avery. She just sick. Sicker than anybody I ever seen. She sicker than my mama was when she die. But she more evil than my mama and that keep her alive.

This life soon be over … Heaven last always

As you sit, make peace also with the reality that, after you die, it won't matter to you how you are remembered; you will not be here to experience it. All the grand things that you do or say, all the skyscrapers you build and cover with gold, your elegant tombstone, all will be completely forgotten eventually. Even your children, and their children, too, will be forgotten. That being so, perhaps it is best to begin to erase your presence well before you leave the scene.

This life soon be over, I say. Heaven last all ways. You ought to bash Mr. _____ head open, she say. Think bout heaven later.

Again, she may have made the equation that sexual involvement was inextricably linked with death.

the most resplendent sun setteth at last in a western cloud.

Who can live with this Consciousness and not wake frightened at sunrise?

with your eyes/with your Death full of Flowers.

Now I'm an old man and I won't live another 20 years maybe not another 20 weeks, maybe the next second I'll be carried off to rebirth the worm farm, maybe it's already happened- How should I know, says Allen Ginsberg Maybe I've been dreaming all along-

Yo pensaba: sí, sí, tonta, muérete y verás. Y se murió, mira por donde. El listo al hoyo y la tonta al bollo...

Just consider how terrible the day of your death will be. Others will go on speaking, and you will not be able to argue back.

Good-bye -- if you hear of my being stood up against a stone wall and shot to rags please know that I think that a pretty good way to depart this life. It beats old age, disease or falling down the cellar stairs.

Good-bye — if you hear of my being stood up against a Mexican stone wall and shot to rags please know that I think that a pretty good way to depart this life. It beats old age, disease, or falling down the cellar stairs. To be a Gringo in Mexico — ah, that is euthanasia.