Best 2053 quotes in «dying quotes» category

Consumption can be a remedy against boredom and may convey a sense of fictitious power and supremacy, by standing out from the crowd through the extravagance of the expenditure. As it becomes an addiction, however, it might be cured, if the right medication is administered : humbleness and mindful discovery of the others. (“Buying now, dying later”)

Convinced that we're living the whole time that we're dying. We decide to go out walking the whole time that you're talking. Convinced that you're living whole time that I'm dying.

Dark circles under my eyes sink deeper and deeper into my skull, in contrast to my pale skin there is an undeniable resemblance to a fresh corpse.

Death is an inevitability, isn't it? You become more aware of that when you get to my age. I don't worry about it. I'm ready for it. When I go, I want to go doing what I do best. If I died tomorrow, I couldn't complain. It's been good.

Death was not the scariest thing out there; no, the denial of it could be far worse.

Death is fugitive; even when you're watching for it, the actual instant somehow slips between your fingers. You don't get that sudden drop of the head you see in movies. Instead you simply sit there, waiting for something to happen, and all at once you realize you've missed it.

Death is perfectly safe. (55)

Death is the evil twin of life.

Death. It is a strange stalker, one that we spend our whole lives running from, some more successful than others.

Death pulls people from our spaces so often and we accept it as our final payment for having been here and having lived, however big or small. We don’t always have time to notice how things have changed in the absence of some of them. But then death pulls away someone we love, and we find that time. In here, we notice everything; growing grass and fingernails, and songs that end in a minor key. We are too sad to do anything else but watch a clock, applying seconds, minutes, and hours to the trauma and the lacerations. Time, the forever healer, they say. We find the time to wonder how everyone else is moving on, around our paralyzed selves. Ourselves unsure of roads and trees and birds and things. It all blurs and words aren’t words anymore. We find the time to attempt to figure a way to rethink everything we thought about this world and why we came to it.

Death is known only through dying and truth is known only through diving deep within oneself.

Death is [...] the blackboard on which life is written.

Death was final and absolute and there was nothing anyone could do to change it.

Death is misery! The lifeless person was once full of life.

Death is not the end death can never be the end. Death is the road. Life is the traveller. The Soul is the Guide

Death is permanent. There’s no coming back if you get off the ferryman’s boat.

Death loves death, not life. Dying people love to know that others die with them; it is a comfort to learn you are not alone in the kiln, in the grave.

Death may be peaceful but the circumstances leading to it are more often than not anything but. They slept that day with their eyes open, with death as the companion of their dreams. Maybe you would like to imagine that they were looking at each other, heads twisted at grotesque angles or at the fading sun. Their bodies were just empty vessels and their eyes were windows that showed only a vacant home. Maybe it was because they had passed on into a world where the sun never set or maybe even a world where nothing existed but an infinite pool of darkness. You can choose to believe anything you want up to the time Death comes for you. After that, well, we can only imagin

Death would be an extremely bad thing like most of us paint it, if being dead were painful.

Die. Do you think I will? I suppose I must...I exist now, and everything that exists must end, one day. I wonder how I will die, and what it will be like. It will be most interesting, don't you think? [...] Yes. Yes, I think it will," said the wolf. "I look forward to it. On the whole, I think it is a very strange and terrifying thing, to exist. I really don't understand how you do it. Tell me - how do you deal with the fear? "The fear?" asked George. "Yes. That fear that comes from the feeling that there is you, and then there is...everything else. That you are trapped inside of yourself, a tiny dot insignificant in the face of every everything that could ever be. How do you manage that?" George considered how to answer. "I...guess we just never think about it." "Never think about it!" cried the wolf. "How can you not think about it when it confronts you at every moment? You are lost amid a wide, dark sea, with no shores in sight, and you all so rarely panic! Some days I can barely function, so how on earth can you never think about it?" "Well, I...suppose we distract ourselves," said George. "But with what?". "I don't know. With all kinds of things.

Don't risk your life for those that doesn't love your life, lest you end up in regrets if not death.

Directing a funeral isn’t about death at all. Funerals are for the living, not the dead.

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rage at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do not go to my grave. Mary knows, I am not there. Look for me in between pages and on people’s lips. Do not go to my old school. Do not go to my old house — I am not in any of those places. Look for me in your hearts and greet me there.

Don't be in temper, to leave so quickly, that I may be dying. But all too soon, the leaves and debris will gather elsewhere.

Don't cry for me, for I go where music was born.

Don't think about it. However it was it is over now. However it was or whereever it was. He is not lying there any more. He is nowhere now. Nowhere at all. Don't think about it.

Don’t wait for the last hour of life; to do the things you wish to do.

Don’t worry if you don’t accomplish everything in this life. Fortunately, death overcomes every thing—even the very thing that tried to kill us.

Don't worry, I plan on living a long time." "Why are you making a bucket list, then?" "Because if you wait until you're really dying, it's too late.

Don’t waste your time dying over the past, spend it living in the present.

…Do you think there’s somewhere else, some other place to go after this one?” Mandy blurted out. “You mean when you die, where will you end up?” Alecto asked her. “…I wouldn’t know… back to whatever void there is, I suppose.” “I’ve thought about it… every living thing dies alone, it’ll be lonely after death,” Mandy sighed sadly. “That freaks me out, does it scare you?” “I don't want to be alone,” Alecto replied wearily. “We won’t be, though. We’ll be dead, so we’ll just be darkness, not much else, just memories, nostalgia and darkness.” “I don’t want to be any of that either though,” Mandy exclaimed, bursting into tears and crying, keeping her eyes to the floor, her voice shaky as she spoke to him. “When we die, we’ll still be nothing, the world will still be nothing, everything’ll just be nothing!” “You’re real though, at least that’s something,” Alecto pointed out, holding his hand out in front of her. Smiling miserably, Mandy took his hand in her own and sat there beside him quietly.

Dying was misery. Death was that period at the end of the sentence.

Dreams link us to those who have already left this life.

Dying in one’s fourth decade is unusual now, but dying is not. “The thing about lung cancer is that it’s not exotic,” Paul wrote in an email to his best friend, Robin. “The reader can get into these shoes, walk a bit, and say, ‘So that’s what it looks like from here. Sooner or later, I’ll be back here in my own shoes.’ That’s what I’m aiming for, I think. Not the sensationalism of dying and not the exhortations to gather rosebuds but: Here’s what lies up ahead on the road.” Of course, he did more than just describe the terrain. He traversed it bravely.

Dying may just be the best thing that ever happened to me.

Dying is a very solitary thing. The only thing we can do it be there when she wants us there.

Dying provides us with the definitive answer to the question: Is there life after death?

Dying would be totally worth it if it meant meeting the loved ones who left this planet before we did.

Dying's a fearful popular activity these days so we often double 'em up.

Dying’s easy. It’s living that’s hard.

Each day is born with a sunrise and ends in a sunset, the same way we open our eyes to see the light, and close them to hear the dark.

Dying for someone is easy." J.T. murmured now; as if reading my mind."Living for yourself, that's hard.

Dying from an aggressive fatal brain tumor is like dying from Alzheimer's disease accelerated one hundred times.

Dying is like the ocean, sometimes the tide comes in gently with soft, delicate waves quietly working in the background. Other days, the waves violently crash into explosions, demanding to be noticed but regardless of how it chooses to do its job, the tide will always come in.

Dželat mi prilazi i kaže: "Spustite glavu na panj i raširite ruke kad budete spremni, gospo." Poslušno spuštam ruke na panj i nespretno kleknem na travu. Osećam njen miris pod kolenima. Osećam bol u leđima i čujem krik galebova i nečiji plač. A onda odjednom, baš kad se spremim da spustim čelo na hrapavu površinu panja i raširim ruke da dam znak krvniku da može da udari, odjednom me preplavljuje talas radosti i žudnje za životom, i kažem: "Ne." Prekasno je, dželat je već zamahnuo sekirom iznad glave, vež je spušta, ali ja kažem: "Ne" i ustajem, pridržavajući se za panj da se osovim na noge. Osetim strahovit udarac na potiljku, ali gotovo nikakav bol. Silina udarca obara me na zemlju i ja ponavljam "Ne", i odjednom me obuzima buntovnički zanos. Ne pristajem na volju ludaka Henrija Tjudora, ne spuštam krotko glavu na panj i nikada to neću uraditi. Boriću se za svoj život i vičem "Ne!", pokušavajući da ustanem i "Ne", kad osetim novi udarac, "Ne" dok pužem po travi, a krv mi lipti iz rane na vratu i glavi i zaslepljuje me, ali ne guši moju radost u borbi za život iako mi on izmiče, i svedočenju, do poslednje g časa, o zlu koje Henri Tjudor nanosi meni i mojima. "Ne!", vičem. "Ne! Ne! Ne

Ever since her diagnosis, she’s been fading like a light bulb with cancer’s hand on the rotary dimmer.

Eventually our whole world, every culture, will explode and we'll all just be fucking cosmic dust. We'll all dissipate. We'll all be nothing and everything. What's more spiritual than that?

Everyone dies young.

Ever two seconds, somewhere in the world, a child dies of starvation. That means every two seconds there is a story where the main character dies. That's a lot of horrible stories. So if my death looks like a sad story to someone else, I hope those people will use their imagination to think of all the children who don't get special deaths.