Quotes About Mortality

Rant said that view of time was set up so folks won't live forever. It's the planned obsolescence we've all agreed to...'Nothing says you have to swallow this,' Rant told me. 'You can always just die.

Grace says, We all die. She says, The goal isn't to live forever, the goal is to create something that will.

How everything you ever love will reject you or die. Everything you ever create will be thrown away. Everything you're proud of will end up as trash. I am Ozymandias, king of kings.

The first time you meet that someone special, you can count on them one day being dead and in the ground.

On a long enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero. (Narrator)

They want me to account for my next ten years. Their way, everything in your life turns into an item on a list. Something to accomplish. You get to see how your life looks flattened out. The shortest distance between two points is a timeline, a schedule, a map of your time, the itinerary for the rest of your life. Nothing shows you the straight line from here to death like a list.

Set yourself a goal so difficult that death will seem like a welcome reprieve.

How could you ever bring yourself to love so deeply if you truly knew how brief a lifetime could be?

On a large enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero.

Despite my lifetime of declining rich desserts, my evenings spent jogging, regardless of all my careful moderation and self-discipline—I'm trapped, wadded inside a shell of steel and aluminum. My body, violated in countless places by fragments of broken glass. My low-cholesterol blood rushes to abandon me in hot, leaping spurts. Despite all my care, the heart-attack victim and I will both be just as dead.

You are not a beautiful, unique snowflake... This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time.

Marla doesn't have testicular cancer. Marla doesn't have tuberculosis. She isn't dying. Okay in that brain brain-food philosophy way, we're all dying, but Marla isn't dying the way Chloe was dying.

The first time you meet that some­one spe­cial, you can count on them one day be­ing dead and in the ground.

How could you let me love something that was going to die?

The body ages, grows, passes through near-lunatic phases of reproductive frenzy, but you are born and die essentially the same person. That... that is proof of your deathless soul.

When you're dead probably not even homeless people and retarded people will want to trade you places.

This is your life and its ending one minute at a time.

Imagine there is no God. There is no Heaven or Hell. There is only your son and his son and his son, and the world you leave for them.

Marla's philosophy of life, she told me, is that she can die at any moment. The tragedy of her life is that she doesn't.

You are not special. You're not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You're the same decaying organic matter as everything else.

And I say no. The problem is the light, the dim light down here. Cupped in the palm of my hand, the cyanide and the wood pill, I can't tell which is which. What's sex and what's death—I can't tell the difference. I ask which one to give her. And Mr. Bacardi leans in to look, both of us breathing hot, damp air into my open hand.

Life is short. Death is forever.

Noth­ing shows you the straight line from here to death like a list

You are not special. Your are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everything else.