Quotes About Mortality

Life is short, death is forever

Is death that which gives meaning to life? And I said, no, life is that which gives meaning to life.

Death is a part of life ... and that part of life needs everything that the rest of life does.

For one thing we may be grateful: this life is not eternal.

Life is but sighs; and, when they cease, 'tis over.

Every fear is fear of death.

Life... It's a great and terrible and short and endless thing. None of us come out of it alive.

What fun is life without a little death?

These are but dreaming men. Breathe, and they fade.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

After the first death, there is no other.

Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

Tell him I write of worms and corruption, because I like worms and corruption. Tell him I believe in the fundamental wickedness and worthlessness of man, & in the rot in life. Tell him I am all for cancers. And tell him, too, that I loathe poetry. I'd prefer to be an anatomist or the keeper of a morgue any day. Tell him I live exclusively on toenails and rumours. I sleep in a coffin too, and a wormy shroud is my summer suit.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light

And time cast forth my mortal creature To drift or drown upon the seas Acquainted with the salt adventure Of tides that never touch the shores. I who was rich was made the richer By sipping at the vine of days.

I am going into the darkness of the darkness for ever.

And the whole pain flows open and I die.

She has forgotten dying.

Non andartene docile in quella buona notte, Benché i saggi conoscano alla fine che la tenebra è giusta infuria, infuria, contro il morire della luce.

Happy Cadaver's hunger as you take The kissproof world.

Do not go gentle into that good night

Give, do not lend; after death who will thank you?

After all, what's a life, anyway? We're born, we live a little while, we die.

The city, for the first time in its long history, is destructible. A single flight of planes no bigger than a wedge of geese can quickly end this island fantasy, burn the towers, crumble the bridges, turn the underground passages into lethal chambers, cremate the millions. The intimation of mortality is part of New York now: in the sound of jets overhead, in the black headlines of the latest edition.