Quotes About Mortality

The man of culture is one of the poorest mortals alive. For simple pedantry and want of good sense no man is his equal. No assumption is too unreal, no end is too unpractical for him.

People don't really want to know the truth. The truth is that you are all dead in the future, everything that you do has no point, and all of the achievements of the human race are meaningless.

Death is every mortal's shadow, his true shadow, and time is its servant, spinning that shadow slowly round, until what stretched behind one now stretches before him.

It wasn't too much, to take a frail figure into one's arms for those last moments of life. Better than a cot, or even a bed in a room filled with loved ones. Better, too, than an empty street in the cold rain. To die in someone's arms - could there be anything more forgiving? Every savage barbarian in the world knew the truth of this.

Death and dying makes us into children once again, in truth, one last time, there in our final wailing cries. More than one philosopher has claimed that we ever remain children, far beneath the indurated layers that make up the armour of adulthood.

The Lady takes most mortals unto her bosom by maladies of the colon." "Death by constipation?

There is no point in honoring the dead. I have seen too much to believe otherwise. Grieve for lost potential, the end of possibilities, the eternally silence demise of promise. Grieve for that, Fear Sengar, and you will understand, finally, how grief is but a mirror, held close to one's own face.

Powiedz mi, Tool, o czym myÅ›lisz najcz??ciej? Imass wzruszyÅ' ramionami. – O bezcelowoÅ›ci, przyboczna. – Czy wszyscy Imassowie o niej myÅ›lÄ…? – Nie. WiÄ™kszo?? w ogóle nie myÅ›li. – A to dlaczego? PrzechyliÅ' gÅ'owÄ™. – Dlatego, ?e to bezcelowe, przyboczna.

A chill crept over Duiker. Even wheeled hospitals carried with them that pervasive atmosphere of fear, the sounds of defiance and the silence of surrender. Mortality's many comforting layers had been stripped away, revealing wracked bones, a sudden comprehension of death that throbbed like an exposed nerve.

Why not? How has her infamous, unceasing sorrow for the plight of mortals done them any good, any at all, Hurlochel? It's easy to weep when staying far away, doing nothing. When you take credit for every survivor out there – those whose own spirits fought the battle, whose own spirits refused to yield to Hood's embrace.

She eyed him steadily, wondering at his sudden . . . humanity. Maybe dying did away with the usual games, the pretenses of the living dance.

Then we're dead all that much sooner. So it goes.

Fucking regrets. We all have them, don't we. Live long enough and maybe it's all we have, all we keep alive in our minds. Spirits below, what a miserable thought.

Mortal, yours is a surpassing conceit … which I cannot but applaud.

The body will totter past the dead husk of its soul, sometimes for days, sometimes for years.

To stand in the heart of Dragnipur, to stand above the very Gate of Darkness, this was, for Anomander Rake, a most final act. Perhaps it was desperation. Or a sacrifice beyond all mortal measure.

The longer one lives, the less valued is that life. Why is that?

To know and to understand that we must all die, Trull Sengar, is not to worship death. To know and to understand is itself magic, for it made us stand tall.

Minds that discovered, faint as flickering fires in the sky, the recognition of oblivion, of an end…to life, to love. Eyes that witnessed the struggle to survive, and saw with wonder its inevitable failure. To know and to understand that we must all die, Trull Sengar, is not to worship death. To know and to understand is itself magic, for it made us stand tall.

Is that all we mortals are? The victims of tortured irony to amuse an insane murder of gods?' 'A murder of crows, a murder of gods—I like that, lass. As for tortured irony, more like exquisite irony.

His dying shriek rose skyward.

Piensa en cosas bonitas. La carne se marchita.

There is nothing just in death. When the moment arrives, it is always too soon. The curse of incompletion, the loss that can never be filled. Before too long, rising like jagged rocks from the flood, there was anger.

Beware the leader who has nothing to lose.' Her people were proud of their wise sayings. And yet now, in their mortal silence, wisdom and pride proved a perfect match in value. Namely: worthless.