Quotes About Mortality

I picture my epitaph: 'Here lies Paul Newman, who died a failure because his eyes turned brown.

the courage to die is the test of the courage to be.

Der Mensch lebt und stirbt in dem, was er sieht, aber er sieht nur was er träumt.

Pourquoi travailler ? Parce qu'on n'éprouve plus, tant qu'on travaille, le sentiment, toujours tapi à l'arrière-plan de la conscience, qu'on mourra tôt ou tard ; et, dans mon cas, qu'on mourra bientôt.

Everyone dies, including me—which may be sooner rather than later. I need to be sure about where I'll go when I die. I need to be ready for whatever happens. It's time to revisit my beliefs. My eternal destination depends on knowing the truth.

Everyday you wake up on the right side of the dirt is a good one.

You know, I am so sick of cuttin' on my television and everyone on it is obsessed with livin' forever. Well, I have a news flash: Ain't none of us gettin' out of her alive.

Life had been soft for so long a time, edgeless and spongy, and now, here in all its surface banality and submerged horror was this idiot event—her own doing—this undignified confrontation with mortality.

Is it nice? It's hard to care about people. You end up fretting all the time and feeling helpless, hoping they'll live forever. Only no one does.

It's hard to care about people. You end up fretting all the time and feeling helpless, hoping they'll live forever. Only no one does." "Yes, that's love for you.

It is my wish to die of unique causes, perhaps in a high-speed tricycle crash, a bizarre stapling incient, or as a result of inadvertently sucking my brains out through my ear while trying to untwist the vacuum hose.

And in a way, this was how he had come to see his death, as a series of small ones taking place over the course of his life and leading finally to the main event, which would be so anti-climatic, so undramatic (a sudden violent seizure in his long abused heart, a quick massive flooding of the brain) it would go unnoticed. It was the small deaths occurring over an entire lifetime that took the greater toll.

Who cares for your fashions and your wars and your causes? I will shortly be gone and I have seen many fashions come and go and many causes so passionately defended only to be forgotten. But now it was different and he was drawn back into the stream of being because there was once again a life in his hands. Things mattered. The

At the age he had attained with his life span short before him he had begun to look upon the human world with the indifference of a condemned man. Who cares for your fashions and your wars and your causes? I will shortly be gone and I have seen many fashions come and go and many causes so passionately defended only to be forgotten.

A good man has as much chance of dying as a bad one. Maybe more so.

I'm going to die, she thought. Alone, in this village, under an oak. No one will ever find me. Who in my family will come to look for me? I'm going to die here alone in the woods and turn to moss, and on Fifth Soviet they will open up another bottle of vodka and chase me down with pickles, and say, this is for our Tania.

Please don't die," she whispered. "I don't think I can bury you. I already buried everyone else." "How can I die," Alexander said, his voice breaking, "when you have poured your immortal blood into me?

Self-sufficiency is incompatible with dialogue. Men and women who lack humility (or have lost it) cannot come to the people, cannot be their partners in naming the world. Someone who cannot acknowledge himself to be as mortal as everyone else still has a long way to go before he can reach the point of encounter. At the point of encounter there are neither utter ignoramuses nor perfect sages; there are only people who are attempting, together, to learn more than they now know.

Essa vida é uma viagem pena eu estar só de passagem

How slowly life moves when you're dead. Another day, another hour, another night in bed. I want to live awake. I've been sleeping. Sleepwalking.

We should so provide for old age that it may have no urgent wants of this world to absorb it from meditation on the next. It is awful to see the lean hands of dotage making a coffer of the grave.

The king dreams he is a king, and lives in this deception commanding, disposing of, reigning, ruling, And the applause, thus on loan received so gets in the wind written. And in ashes Death will turn him - great disgrace! Who will dare so to govern seeing himself come awake to the sorry dream of Death?

No es breve luz aquella caduca exhalación, pálida estrella, que en trémulos desmayos pulsando ardores y latiendo rayos, hace más tenebrosa la obscura habitación con luz dudosa?

The king dreams he is a king, And in this delusive way Lives and rules with sovereign sway; All the cheers that round him ring, Born of air, on air take wing. And in ashes (mournful fate!) Death dissolves his pride and state: Who would wish a crown to take, Seeing that he must awake In the dream beyond death's gate?