Quotes About Mortality

O, she was foul!— I scarce did know you, uncle; there lies your niece, Whose breath, indeed, these hands have newly stopp'd: I know this act shows horrible and grim. GRATIANO Poor Desdemona! I am glad thy father's dead: Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief Shore his old thread in twain: did he live now, This sight would make him do a desperate turn, Yea, curse his better angel from his side, And fall to reprobance. OTHELLO 'Tis pitiful; but yet Iago knows That she with Cassio hath

And every day past is just another step for fools on the way to their deaths.

O momentary grace of mortal men, Which we more hunt for than the grace of God! Who builds his hopes in air of your good looks, Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready, with every nod, to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep.

La mort, ce sombre fantôme, est assise sur son bras vigoureux : ce bras se lève, retombe, et alors les hommes meurent.

Merely, thou art death's fool, For him thou labor'st by thy flight to shun, And yet run'st toward him still.

If a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings and the widow weeps

What's yet in this That bears the name of life? Yet in this life Lie hid moe thousand deaths; yet death we fear, That makes these odds all even.

Which is worse, past or future? Neither. I will fold up my mind like a leaf and drift on this stream over the brink. Which will be soon, and then the dark, and then be done with this ugliness...

One of the century's most famous intellectual pronouncements comes at the beginning of The Myth of Sisyphus: "There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy

When Mr Bird had written his will and had read it over he became aware that he was laughing. He heard the sound for some time, a minute or a minute and a quarter, and then he recognized its source and wondered why he was laughing like that, such a quiet, slurping sound, like the lapping of water.

She thought of death and of her own in particular: the death of her body and the death of her face.

This is the end For all our skill we have not conquered death Our spirit leaves our bodies within our final breath. We lay our instrument of flesh aside When hurt beyond all mortal hope to end This is the end

We're all dying. That's what defines the condition of living.

The only security was death. So long as one wanted to go on living one had to accept the risks.

Bolshevism is not a policy; it is a disease. It is not a creed; it is a pestilence. It presents all the characteristics of a pestilence. It breaks out with great suddenness; it is violently contagious; it throws people into a frenzy of excitement; it spreads with extraordinary rapidity; the mortality is terrible; so that, after a while, like other pestilences, the disease tends to wear itself out.

Depend upon it, Sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.' DR. JOHNSON

For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.

The veils of the future are lifted one by one, and mortals must act from day to day.

He was a cut flower in a vase; fair to see, yet bound to die, and to die very soon if the water was not constantly renewed.

When the notes of life ring false, men should correct them by referring to the tuning-fork of death. It is when that clear menacing tone is heard that the love of life grows keenest in the human heart.

I've wanted to write about them for a long while, but it's a tricky subject, always put off for later and perhaps worthy of a better poet, even more stunned by the world than I. But time is short. I write.

A che serve qui chiedersi sotto quante stelle nasce l'uomo, e sotto quante dopo un attimo muore.

The price, after all, for not having died already goes up not in leaps but step by step, and he would pay that price, too.

I've wanted to write about them for a long while, but it's a tricky subject, always put off for later and perhaps worthy of a better poet, even more stunned by the world than I. But time is short. I write.