Quotes About Mortality

YOU HAVE YOUR OWN LIFE TO LIVE, IRIS, AND AT ITS END, THE ONLY OPINION THAT AMOUNTS TO ANYTHING IS THAT WHICH GOD BESTOWS.

When you can't die, she thought, everything sounds like a clock ticking.

I never talk about the end game. He winked at her. I've lived so long without death that I've stopped believing in it.

Speaking uses us up, speeds us up. Without prayer, that act of confession for merely existing, one might live forever and not know it.

Sooner or later we grow into deserving our own deaths, somehow.

One day he would finish the job of dying he'd begun in childhood/

Kendi ölümünün düÅŸünü kurabilmek, ne armaÄŸan ama...

Life is a very cheap thing here. Cheap and dear all at once, said the rose from her grave. That's the thing. You'll figure it out sooner or later.

Death comes as a shock even when it is inevitable. The world reasserts itself. It says, I keep going whether you do or not. I am indifferent to your need for constancy, says the world, and my indifference is shown in my own constancy.

We don't go on having babies, that's quite apparent. We only have babies when we're young enough not to know how grim life turns out. Once we really get the full measure of it - we're slow learners, we women - we dry up in disgust and sensibly halt production. But men don't dry up, Melena objected; they can father to the death. Ah we're slow learners, Nanny countered. But *they* can't learn at all.

And a recipe on this page. It says 'Of apples with black skin and white flesh: to fill the stomach with greed unto Death.

And every time we hear people talk about Heaven or angels or past lives or their loved ones being in a better place and looking down on them right now, we're reminded: "Oh, yeah. We don't think that. We think that when we die, we die forever. We don't think our dead loved ones are with God. We think that they're fucking dead." We have to face death a little bit, every day of our lives. It's like an inoculation.

I tell the parents that those who passed away remind us that we will all die, and to remember this fact; they gave their lives to remind us to live!

Show pity I beg you... We have today been struck down by fortune But tomorrow it may be your own turn to die.

Der Mensch hängt an dem Seinen, an sich selbst und dem Seinen, bis über den Tod hinaus und bangt davor, das Leben aus den Händen zu verlieren - dies Wirklichste von allem Wirklichen, dies Erbärmlichste von allem Erbärmlichen, dies Unendlichste von allem Unendlichen; bangt vor der Einsamkeit, auf der sein selbst beruht, die sein Selbst ist, bangt davor, ohne Mitmenschen ringsum zu sein - und vielleicht von Gott vergessen.

Man clings to himself and what is his, over and beyond death itself, and he is afraid to let life out of his hands—life, this most real of all things, this most pitiful of all pitiful things, the most eternal of all that is eternal.

All that is not perfect down to the smallest detail is doomed to perish.

There is always after the death of anyone a kind of stupefaction; so difficult is it to grasp this advent of nothingness and to resign ourselves to believe in it.

She constantly complained of her nerves, her chest, her liver. The noise of footsteps made her ill; when people left her, solitude became odious to her; if they came back, it was doubtless to see her die.

Death always brings with it a kind of stupefaction, so difficult is it for the human mind to realize and resign itself to the blank and utter nothingness.

On the hill there was a poor old tramp wandering about with his stick, in among the carriages. A mass of rags covered his shoulders, and a squashed beaver-hat, bent down into the shape of a bowl, concealed his face; but, when he took it off, he exposed, instead of eyelids, two yawning bloodstained holes. The flesh was tattered into scarlet strips; and fluid was trickling out, congealing into green crusts that reached down to his nose, with black nostrils that kept sniffing convulsively.

I was born longing to die.

de sa main gauche, tout en aspergeant de la droite, il poussa vigoureusement une large pelletée ; et le bois du cercueil, heurté par les cailloux, fit ce bruit formidable qui nous semble être le retentissement de l'éternité.

Aquela putain , Emma Bovary, tem a vida eterna e eu morro como um cão.