Quotes About Mortality

Il filosofo che contemplava il teschio di un re e quello di un povero, non vi ravvisò differenza.

They say the Church-yard is crouded with more of the living, than of the dead, and there is hardly room  for a spade. What an image, on such a day!

But gomers are not just dear old people," said Fats. "Gomers are human beings who have lost what goes into being human beings. They want to die, and we will not let them. We're cruel to the gomers, by saving them, and they're cruel to us, by fighting tooth and nail against our trying to save them. They hurt us, we hurt them.

GOMER: Get Out of My Emergency Room; "a human being who has lost—often through age—what goes into being a human being" (the Fat Man).

Swans sing before they die— 't were no bad thing Should certain persons die before they sing.

Our society celebrates nothing more than the overcoming of limitation – in sport, in science, in communications, in health. Every invention, every new world record, every new gadget is a sacrament of the deepest human desire of our age – to become free by transcending limitation, and thus, for a moment, believing we can withstand even death.

Quizá cada gato o cada perro se crea inmortal, porque no ha muerto. ¿Me sigue usted? Pero nosotros sabemos que moriremos y vivimos obsesionados con combatir la muerte, lo cual hace que ella tenga una presencia desmedida, a menudo aplastante, en nuestra vida. El ser humano tiene alma en la justa medida en que es consciente de su propia muerte.

Usually people avoided mentioning Abel's name, as if he'd done something unforgiveable. Which I guess he had: He reminded people of the cruel unfairness of life, and the closeness of death.

I used to think I preferred getting old to the alternative, but now I'm not sure. Sometimes the momotony of bingo and sing-alongs and ancient dusty people parked in teh hallway in wheelchairs makes me long for death. Particularly when I rememver that I'm one of the ancient dusty people, filed away like some worthless tchotchke.

I've decided it's not about me at all. It's a protective mechanism for them, a way of buffering themselves against my future death, like when teenagers distance themselves from their parents in preparation for leaving home.

Age is a terrible thief. Just when you're getting the hang of life, it knocks your legs out from under you and stoops your back. It makes you ache and muddies your head and silently spreads cancer throughout your spouse

But then in your thirties something strange starts to happen. It's a mere hiccup at first, an instant of hesitation. How old are you? Oh, I'm—you start confidently, but then you stop. You were going to say thirty-three, but you're not. You're thirty-five. And then you're bothered, because you wonder if this is the beginning of the end. It is, of course, but it's decades before you admit it.

Age is a terrible thief. Just when you're getting the hang of life, it knocks your legs out from under you and stoops your back. It makes you ache and muddies your head and silently spreads cancer throughout your spouse. Metastatic

can't be mine. Age is a terrible thief. Just when you're getting the hang of life, it knocks your legs out from under you and stoops your back. It makes you ache and muddies your head and silently spreads cancer throughout your spouse.

If you were dead, Owen told her, you'd have bigger problems than what you were wearing.

Death was, after all, a temporary staging post in a longer journey

It was one of those perfect New York October afternoons, when the explosion of oranges and yellows against the bright blue sky makes you feel like your life is passing through your fingers, that you've felt this autumn-feeling before and you'll probably get to feel it again, but one day you won't anymore, because you'll be dead.

In New York, when a tree dies, nobody mourns that it was cut down in its prime. Nobody counts the rings, notifies the loved ones. There are other trees. We can always squeeze in one more. Mind the tourists. It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't wanna live there.

Just to make sure it wasn't cancer. Or a heart attack. Or lymphangioleiomyomatosis. Which, sure, only affected one out of a million people, but it started with a cough, and if you were the one out of a million, then you were done-like-dinner within the year.

Every day as I wave to my children when I drop them off at school, or let one of them have a new experience—like crossing the street without holding my hand—I experience the struggle between love and non-attachment. It is hard to bear—the extreme love of one's child and the thought that ultimately the child belongs to the world. There is this horrible design flaw—children are supposed to grow up and away from you; and one of you will die first.

In the gravedigger scene in act V, Hamlet looks upon an anonymous skull and jokes that even Alexander the Great decomposed into dust that could have been used to plug a beer barrel. But when Hamlet is shown this skull of his old friend Yorick, the prince becomes unspeakably sentimental and sad because he knew him.

Cada instante aparece para traer los siguientes. Me aferro a cada instante con toda el alma; sé que es único, irremplazable, y sin embargo no movería un dedo para impedir su aniquilación.

Death is the dark backing that a mirror needs if we are to see anything.

The flesh would shrink and go, the blood would dry, but no one believes in his mind of minds or heart of hearts that the pictures do stop.