Quotes About Mortality

We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are never going to die because they are never going to be born.

Indeed, I rather hope that I shall be dead when you do. Don't misunderstand me. I love life and hope to go on for a long time yet, but any author wants his works to reach the largest possible readership.

The chances of each of us coming into existence are infinitesimally small, and even though we shall all die some day, we should count ourselves fantastically lucky to get our decades in the sun.

Reporters go through four stages in a war zone. In the first stage, you're Superman, invincible. In the second, you're aware that things are dangerous and you need to be careful. In the third, you conclude that math and probability are working against you. In the fourth, you know you're going to die because you've played the game too long. I was drifting into stage three.

On his death bed, the eighteenth-century haiku poet Shisui had finally responded to requests for a death poem by grabbing his brush, painting his poem, and dying. On the paper Shisui's shocked followers saw he had painted a circle.

To die of old age...is a rare, singular, and extraordinary death. It is the last and extremist kind of dying. It encourages people to lead a life devoted to not dying, which is really another way of not living.

It had been a day to die, not because it was a special day but because it wasn't, and every day was a day to die now, and the only question that pressed on them, as to who might be next, had been answered.

death poem of Hyakka

To control the deaths of others - when, where, the craft of ensuring it was a cleanly sliced ending - that was possible. And in some strange way, such killing felt like controlling whatever remained of his own life.

My purpose holds, To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars until I die.

Nothing endures. Don't you see, Bonox? That's what Kipling meant. Not empires, not memories. We remember nothing. Maybe for a year or two. Maybe most of a life, if we live. Maybe. But then we will die, and who will ever understand any of this? And maybe we remember nothing most of all when we put our hands on our hearts and carry on about not forgetting.

Only sometimes you can't feel anything about a subject without hypothesizing its extinction.

It was if we all sensed we'd be gone someday soon in a sudden instant--often it happened in the middle of the night--and didn't want to get involved. Or else it was that none of us wanted to know anybody later on who was the way we were now.

It's hard to go through life without killing someone.

I'm not a great hoper, Wade, I guess. We're not walking fast. Others pass us. I just go in for generic hopes. That good comes to me, that I do little harm and die in my sleep.

What is it about falling? He died of a fall. The poor thing never recovered after his fall. He broke his hip in a fall and was never the same. Death came relatively quickly after a fall in the back yard. How fucking far do these people fall? Off of buildings? Over spamming cataracts? Down manholes? Is it farther to the ground than it used to be?

Cuá»™c ??i là ?? s?ng t?t và tr?n v?n trong chính nó, ch? không ch? là khúc d?o ??u cho nh?ng gì có th? x?y ??n sau cái ch?t.

but fuck it, you've got to make a stand somewhere. And a man can stave off his own death wish for only so long.

about the blood; it isn't yours. You put this flesh on a couple of days ago, and you'll be taking it off again soon if you can manage not to get killed first. Don't worry about wounds; check your functionality.

we're all alive the day before we die ... but, how alive is another question.

We're all alive the day before we die.

We live, we die, we are remembered, we are forgotten.

For me, death is the one appalling fact which defines life; unless you are constantly aware of it, you cannot begin to understand what life is about; unless you know and feel that the days of wine and roses are limited, that the wine will madeirize and the roses turn brown in their stinking water before all are thrown out for ever- including the jug- there is no context to such pleasures and interests as come your way on the road to the grave.

Life versus Death becomes, as Montaigne pointed out, Old Age versus Death.