Quotes About Mortality

Ta?iau tai bergždžias darbas, ir kai vadiniesi Mikelandželu, Goja, Mocartu, Tolstojumi, Dostojevskiu ar Malro, numiršti negal?damas atsikratyti jausmo, jog kurpei bakal?jos gaminius.

Duygularda korkunç bir ölümlülük var.

Ben o kendi can?na k?yanlar?n türünden bir kiÅŸi deÄŸilim, öyle durup dururken ve ölüm bir baÅŸka yerde meÅŸgulken; ilginç deÄŸildim, bir toplu k?y?m ve bir sigara söz konusu deÄŸildi.

The grave doesn't hold any terrors for me, quite the contrary, just as long as I get there in full possession of my faculties.

His thoughts too were weary, and he felt a little sad to be so very old; it meant he had not much time left and would have to content himself with what he knew already.

Men sometimes die much earlier than they are burried.

Ryléiev foi executado aos 31 anos. Aos 36, Bátiuchkov enlouquece. Aos 22 morre Venetínov, e aos 32 Diélvig. Aos 34, Griboiédov é assassinado, Púchkin aos 37 e Liérmontov aos 26. Suas mortes foram caracterizadas mais de uma vez como formas de suicídio. O próprio Maiakóvski comparava seu combate contra a vida cotidiana aos duelos de Púchkin e Liérmontov.

I fancied my luck to be witnessing yet another full moon. True, I'd seen hundreds of full moons in my life, but they were not limitless. When one starts thinking of the full moon as a common sight that will come again to one's eyes ad-infinitum, the value of life is diminished and life goes by uncherished. 'This may be my last moon,' I sighed, feeling a sudden sweep of sorrow; and went back to reading more of The Odyssey.

We all die in the middle of something.

The youthful body untouched decays the fastest, for no living hands record its splendor; and here youth and time are wasted.

You are like a god, like an immortal one,' she whispered to me one night in our bed, her naked body pressed to mine, our sweat golden and glistening in the candlelight. 'Oh, my love,' I whispered back to her, 'I am more mortal than all. It seems that a part of me dies every night that I lie with you.

I used to be a poet. My words were traded in marketplaces like pieces of gold. Merchants bought my verses for as much as they paid for saffron and Indian jade. Now I am old... drunk on wine and candle fumes. Alone in this barren room, I speak my psalms to the night air so as to entertain moths before they go off to die. I used to be a poet and my words were gold.

It's not that we have to leave this life one day, it's how many things we have to leave all at once: holding hands, hotel rooms, wine, summertime, drunkenness, and the physics of falling leaves, clothing, myrrh, perfumed hair, flirting friends, two strangers' glance; the reflection of the moon, with words like, 'Soon' ... 'do you want me?' ... '...to lie enlaced' ... 'and sleep entwined' thinking ahead, with thoughts behind...?' Ô, Why! Why can't we leave this life slowly?

Who worries for dying? If I close my eyes tonight, I will either dream, or not, or my eyes will open and I will be here again. And if none of those happen, and I do not wake? Who worries for dying?

Death is a thing of beauty, but equally a destroyer of beauty. That is the paradox that we are left with.

Your living or dying is just a piss in the ocean.

I have no roots anywhere else. I have no 'at home' but here. And I feel doomed. Like I'm riding to Hell on a fast horse. I'm not afraid of dying, but I don't want to die alone. I don't want some no one finding me finished off and asking a sheriff, 'Who's that ?

Death used to announce itself in the thick of life but now people drag on so long it sometimes seems that we are reaching the stage when we may have to announce ourselves to death. It is as though one needs a special strength to die, and not a final weakness.

Death is much like an alarm clock except there is never a snooze button to give you just a moment more, before you really have to wake.

La vida es una maldita enfermedad que a todos nos acaba matando.

The more humans have mastered the world, the more it has taken on the taint of our own mortality. The world no longer seems deathless.

His father was so very old now that he slept most of the day. He was ninety-four. When Thomas thought of his father, peace stole across his chest and covered him like sunlight.

I close my eyes and listen to the roar and clatter of the world as it rushes by. We are rushing too. The wind is whipping past us. We are so brief. A one-day dandelion. A seedpod skittering across the ice. We are a feather falling from the wing of a bird. I don't know why it is given to us to be so mortal and to feel so much. It is a cruel trick, and glorious.

For what is a man, what are we all, but bits of time caught for a moment in a tangle of blood, bones, skin, and brain?