Quotes About Mortality

A dead man in Spain is more alive than a dead man anywhere in the world.

What matters most has an ultimate metallic quality of death. The chasuble and the wagon wheel, the razor and the prickly beards of shepherds, the bare moon, a fly, humid cupboards, rubble piles, the images of saints covered in lace, quicklime, and the wounding edges of the rooflines and watchtowers.

Life is laughter amid a rosary of death.

Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?

This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.

Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb; and life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

whom the god loves dies young

LUCIFER: I pity thee who lovest what must perish. CAIN: And I thee who lov'st nothing

Old man! 'Tis not difficult to die.

What is the end of Fame? 't is but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour; For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their 'midnight taper,' To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.

The mind which is immortal makes itself Requital for its good or evil thoughts, Is its own origin of ill and end, And its own place and time; its innate sense, When stripped of this mortality, derives No colour from the fleeting things without, But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, Born from the knowledge of its own desert.

For Earth is but a tombstone

Where all have gone, and all must go To be the nothing that I was 'Ere born to life and living woe!

Tomorrow would have given him all, Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall: Tomorrow would have been the first Of days no more deplored or crust, But bright, and long, and beckoning years, Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, Guerdon of many a painful hour; Tomorrow would have given him power To rule, to shine, to smite, to save— And must it dawn upon his grave?

Time! On whose arbitrary wing The varying hours must flag or fly, Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, But drag or drive us on to die

I live, But live to die; and, living, see no thing To make death hateful, save an innate clinging, A loathsome, and yet all invincible Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I Despise myself, yet cannot overcome–– And so I live. Would I had never lived!

Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day!

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.

It is conceivable that in principle man's motor through-ways resemble the slime trails along which are drawn the gathering mucors that erect the spore palaces, that man's cities are only the ephemeral moment of his spawning--that he must descend upon the orchard of far worlds or die.

The older you get, the deadlier you have to be and you use age to your advantage. You make it a strenght. Most of us are more dangerous the longer we live. If we didn't care about dying when we were young, we're not going to be too concerned about it when we have two feet in our grave.

Tell me this," Pudge would often ask me, as he sat and read about the exorbitant funeral of a rival. "If he was the guy with all the power, then how come he's riding in the lead car, stuffed inside a coffin?

Ningún hombre que se muera sin haber llorado alguna vez frente al mar puede decir que ha vivido.

Well, yeah, you do have to do some things alone. You come into this life alone, and you go out alone. At the end of the day, it's just you.

The man who fails, my learned friend, is the man who dies.