Quotes About Mortality

Une vie ne vaut rien, mais rien ne vaut une vie.

Ne trouvez-vous pas d'une stupidité caractéristique de l'espèce humaine qu'un homme qui n'a qu'une vie puisse la perdre pour une idée ? - Il est très rare qu'un homme puisse supporter, comment dirais-je ? sa condition d'homme...

The house was quiet, my room dark and still. I lay awake and thought of all the good men on TV who'd been shot in the head. I saw again the dead soldiers lying on the ground , and until Pop had cried over us, I hadn't thought much about Jeb and me having to go and fight, too. But in only nine years I'd be as old as the dead, and it'd be my turn, wouldn't it?

Kelson winced. "We lost seven good men in the last fight." "Good men die the same as bad ones," Storm said. "Maybe more often. They'll risk more to do what's right.

Volsky once more had the feeling that the bond between them was indifferent to the demise of bodies.

people ask, well, dont sweet things happen? yes, indeed, many sweet things, but sweet doesnt keep you from dying, making love doesnt keep you from dying unless you get paid, writing doesnt keep you from dying unless you get paid, being wise doesnt keep you from dying unless you get paid, facts are facts, being poor makes you face facts which also does not keep you from dying

The allotted function of art is not, as is often assumed, to put across ideas, to propagate thoughts, to serve as an example. The aim of art is to prepare a person for death, to plough and harrow his soul, rendering it capable of turning to good.

Nor can we see the coffin of a person we have known, without experiencing some new shock of loss. In this respect, a coffin is like a mirror, in which we see the image of our own condition, and understand that our human differences, whether of appearance, morality or wealth, must finally be reconciled.

Death is more universal than life. Everyone dies, but not everyone lives.

There follows, I am sad to say, a very long ride on a very slow road…to your final place of rest." He sighs, for he has spoken the truth for all men. Less understands: he has been assigned a poet.

he had no idea what to do about death. Two thousand years of flaming Viking boats and Celtic rites and Irish wakes and Puritan worship and Unitarian hymns, and still he was left with nothing.

There follows, I am sad to say, a very long ride on a very slow road…to your final place of rest." He sighs, for he has spoken the truth for all men.

There follows, I am sad to say, a very long ride on a very slow ride... to your final place of rest. He sighs, for he has spoken the truth for all men. Less understands: he has been assigned a poet.

Arturo says, "There follows, I am sad to say, a very long ride on a very slow road…to your final place of rest." He sighs, for he has spoken the truth for all men.

The sun is slowly dying, the spiral arm spreading, the molecules drifting apart second by second towards our inevitable heat death- shouldn't we all wail to the stars?

You could almost have it both ways—you could forgive this Larry, struggling with his cane and Wanda and harbors and restaurants and shopping, his cancer and gays and Jews and assholes, forgive him and let him die forgiven. And still never forgive the one who left.

Because at funerals, forever is the theme of the day.

Everything passes away—suffering, pain, blood, hunger, pestilence. The sword will pass away too, but the stars will still remain when the shadows of our presence and our deeds have vanished from the earth. There is no man who does not know that. Why, then, will we not turn our eyes toward the stars? Why?

Life is fraught with sorrows: no matter what we do, we will in the end die; we are, each of us, held in the solitude of an autonomous body; time passes, and what has been will never be again.

I was walking down the street today," she said, "and I thought, I am probably dying. And then I thought, should we have cherries or pears at lunch? And the two things felt too much the same.

A vida é repleta de tristezas: pouco importa o que fazemos, no final todos vamos morrer; cada um de nós está preso à solidão de um corpo independente; o tempo passa e o que passou nunca voltará. A dor é a nossa primeira experiência de desamparo no mundo, e ela nunca nos deixa.

There is a Russian expression: if you wake up feeling no pain, you know you're dead.

The whole world is a charnel house. We always make love on corpses.

Life was a road, and if departed from at a tangent, the longer for it. And a long road was a long life - a case where to travel was better than to arrive, the point of arrival being, after all, always the same: death.