Quotes About Mortality

It's strange, to not be the youngest kind of adult anymore. I'm thirty-one now, and my mother is dead.

Henry Clay is dead. His long and eventful life is closed. Our country is prosperous and powerful; but could it have been quite all it has been, and is, and is to be, without Henry Clay? Such a man the times have demanded, and such in the providence of God was given us. But he is gone. Let us strive to deserve, as far as mortals may, the continued care of Divine Providence, trusting that in future national emergencies He will not fail to provide us the instruments of safety and security.

If you were dead, would you want your body to decompose and be eaten by worms until it laid scattered in a zillion pieces as worm dung? Or would you rather have a purpose, find meaning in death and help the generations that come after you?

Through the years, you've released parts of you. Some went into the sewer, others you left at your friends' houses, some on the sidewalk while riding your bike as a kid. Your body is used to being taken apart by pieces and put back together. Swapping parts is hardwired into human existence. It takes on a much larger role in death.

Maybe Chapman wasn't entirely crazy - live fast, die young, and be a good-looking corpse

It's regret that kills, the if onlys that leave the mortal wounds.

In the physical world we know, nothing lasts forever – a thought I find strangely comforting.

The only thing worse than feeling that you are going to die is the realization that you probably won't.

Life is constant—and changing," Cate mused. "We can never guess what will happen in a day. We will all face danger, and finally death, be it from an accident, disease or old age.

Over the next few months, I set out to understand why in our country with the most expensive and advanced medical technology in the world, growing numbers of American women, disproportionately Black women, were dying as a result of pregnancy and childbirth, including African American women whose income and education should protect them.

2011, writing in the Yale Alumni Magazine, Ron Howell, Murphy's classmate, noted that forty-one years after their graduation, nine of thirty-two Black men who entered Yale in 1966 were dead, a death rate three times higher than that of the class as a whole. Williams offered a sliver of hope and a broad set of suggestions to attack the problem. Even as he spoke of that sliver, I couldn't shake the thought

To put it in the plainest terms, from birth to death the impact on the bodies of Black Americans of living in communities that have been harmed by long-standing racial discrimination, of a deeply rooted and dangerous racial bias in our health-care system, and of the insidious consequences of present-day racism affects who lives and who dies.

I know myself as mortal, but this raises the question: "What is I?" Am I an individual, or am I an evolving life stream composed of countless selves?

Beauty reminds us of our inadequacies, of our mortality, of our limits. Beauty tells us of our short-comings, but also of what is possible.

When bones and flesh have finished their business together, we lay them carefully, in positions they're willing to keep, and cover them over. Their eyes and ours won't meet anymore. We hope.

I like my women in a few wisps of drapery: then I can hope for a chance to remove the wisps. If they start out with nothing I tend to get depressed because either they have just stripped off for someone else or, in my line of work, they are usually dead.

If you're not ready to die, then how can you live?

No eleven-year-old has any real grasp of death. He doesn't have any real concept of other people--that they feel pain, even that they exist. And his own adult future isn't real to him, either. Makes it that much easier to throw away.

For the living, death is thievery.

Había sido incapaz de discernir si ese frenético ajetreo era lo que afirmaba ser, una ferviente determinación a vivir a tope cada uno de los días que le quedaban, o todo lo contrario, una evasión.

How much kinder it would have been, to turn off, like an appliance. The gradual, drawn-out corruption of the body while its host was still trapped inside was a torture of a sort they would have contrived at Guantanamo, or Bergen-Belsen. Every old age was an Edgar Allan Poe story.

Wanting to die and dying are generally unrelated.

When I die," he continued, "you're next in line." "Do you actually believe I'll outlive you?" West asked. "With my vices?" "I have just as many." "Yes, but I'm far more enthusiastic about mine.

If you're cast on 'The Vampire Diaries,' the likelihood of you dying is very good.