Best 9776 quotes in «death quotes» category

Crazy Horse was dead. He was brave and good and wise. He never wanted anything but to save his people, and he fought the Wasichus only when they came to kill us in our own country. He was only thirty years old. They could not kill him in battle. They had to lie to him and kill him that way. I cried all night, and so did my father.

Crap. It's all crap. Living is crap. Life has no meaning. None. Nowhere to be found. Crap. Why doesn't anybody realize this?

Create your own path.Don't blindly follow the massess... because most of the time the "M" is silent.

Creation is a nightmare spectacular taking place on a planet that has been soaked for hundreds of millions of years in the blood of all its creatures.

Credeai că aştepţi moartea. Dar inima ta spera. Tot ea avut dreptate. Urmeaz-o. Trebuie să crezi în ceva. Iată: inima ta. Îţi arată un drum. Ridică-te şi du-te. Mai mult nu-ţi cer.

Crowns and thrones are all bodies which rise and perish and leave the world as it is.

¡Cuantós han muerto habiendo hecho planes para una larga vida!

Cry no tears for us, my friend.” I pry at her fingers, panicking to be released in fear that she may drag me into death with her. She croaks again, “Lend no aches to the dreams of yesterday.” From the corpse of Warren, his greyish gums smack from whatever goo has settled in his mouth, “Allow the tide sweep free the bay.” Then together they sing in zombie choir, “And home the ships sailing send.

Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that instant, did I not extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly bestowed?

Curious that a man as selfish as he should be offering himself to the service of dead dogs. There must be other, more productive ways of giving oneself to the world, or to an idea of the world... But there are other people to do these things - the animal welfare thing, the social rehabilitation thing, even the Byron thing. He saves the honour of corpses because there is no one else stupid enough to do it.

Curiosity is a good thing, like onion soup. But too much onion soup makes your breath smell terrible. And too much curiosity can make your whole body smell terrible, if it causes you to be dead.

Curley's wife lay with a half-covering of yellow hay. And the meanness and the plannings and the discontent and the ache for attention were all gone from her face. She was pretty and simple, and her face was sweet and young. Now her rouged cheeks and reddened lips made her seem alive and sleeping very lightly. The curls, tiny little sausages, were spread on the hay behind her head and her lips were parted

Curtis Bane screamed and though I came around fast and fired in the same motion, he’d already pulled a heater and begun pumping metal at me. We both missed and I was empty, that drum clicking uselessly. I went straight at him. Happily, he too was out of bullets and I closed the gap and slammed the butt of the rifle into his chest. Should’ve knocked him down, but no. The bastard was squat and powerful as a wild animal, thanks to being a coke fiend, no doubt. He ripped the rifle from my grasp and flung it aside. He locked his fists and swung them up into my chin, and it was like getting clobbered with a hammer, and I sprawled into a row of trash cans. Stars zipped through my vision. A leather cosh dropped from his sleeve into his hand and he knew what to do with it all right. He swung it in a short chopping blow at my face and I got my left hand up and the blow snapped my two smallest fingers, and he swung again and I turned my head just enough that it only squashed my ear and you better believe that hurt, but now I’d drawn the sawback bayonet I kept strapped to my hip, a fourteen-inch grooved steel blade with notched and pitted edges—Jesus-fuck who knew how many Yankee boys the Kraut who’d owned it gashed before I did for him—and stabbed it to the guard into Bane’s groin. Took a couple of seconds for Bane to register it was curtains. His face whitened and his mouth slackened, breath steaming in the chill, his evil soul coming untethered. He had lots of gold fillings. He lurched away and I clutched his sleeve awkwardly with my broken hand and rose, twisting the handle of the blade side to side, turning it like a car crank into his guts and bladder, putting my shoulder and hip into it for leverage. He moaned in panic and dropped the cosh and pried at my wrist, but the strength was draining from him and I slammed him against the wall and worked the handle with murderous joy. The cords of his neck went taut and he looked away, as if embarrassed, eyes milky, a doomed petitioner gaping at Hell in all its fiery majesty. I freed the blade with a cork-like pop and blood spurted down his leg in a nice thick stream and he collapsed, folding into himself like a bug does when it dies.

Daddy didn’t say anything for a minute or so, and then he reached up and caught a firefly as it glowed beside him. “See this light?” he asked me when the firefly lit up his hand. “Yes’r.” “That light is bright enough to light up a little speck of the night sky so a man can see it a ways away. That’s what God expects us to do. We’re to be lights in the dark, cold days that are this world. Like fireflies in December.” “Time meandered on without Gemma’s momma and daddy, and it meandered on without Cy fuller and Walt Blevins. . . but those of us left behind viewed life more dearly, felt it more keenly. I’d learned a bit more about God and I’d seen His powerful hands at work. As I was growing, my heart was changing. And the way I figured it, there were lessons learned in those dark days that would help me for years to come.” “As I sat on the porch on that December day . . . I leaned my head against the rail and sighed deeply. The way I figured it just then, my summer may have been full of bad luck, but my life wasn’t. I figured as far as family went, I was one of the luckiest girls alive.

Daddy, why do people have to be dead?” “I don’t really know,” Louis said. “To make room for all the new people, I guess. Little people like you and your brother Gage.” “I’m never going to get married or do sex and have babies!” Ellie declared, crying harder than ever. “Then maybe it’ll never happen to me! It’s awful! It’s m-m-mean!

Dad?" she said. "Do you want some coffee?" he asked. "Are you okay?" She shook her head. No. "There are only so many hours you can sleep in a stranded vehicle." He glanced at the dashboard of her car, then at the untouched receipt--her receipt--sticking out of the machine a few feet away like a white tongue. "There's only so many times you can try to resurrect the dead. You can sit there all you want but you're not going anywhere. And, stuck as you are, you'll be forced to think about it, forced to wake up at some point, forced to depart or die here.

Dad's death didn't hollow me out the way Helen's had. After all, everyone had assumed Dad was a goner back when he got kicked in the head as a child. Instead, he had cheated death and, despite his gimp and speech impediment, lived a long life doing pretty much what he wanted. He hadn't drawn the best of cards, but he'd played his hand darned well, so what was there to grieve over?

Daire drew in a breath, inhaling her intoxicating scent of the sea, sun, and lavender. And might. By the heavens, he craved her.

Cyrano: The leaves--- Roxane: What color---Perfect Venetian red! Look at them fall. Cyrano: Yes---they know how to die. A little way From the branch to the earth, a little fear Of mingling with the common dust---and yet They go down gracefully---a fall that seems Like flying!

Daja was a Trader: they held it was mad to argue when the sick thought that Death approached. Denials only told Death here was someone who would be missed, Death's favourite kind of victim.

Danny could see it in their faces when they shook Steve’s hand—they’d have preferred him dead. Death allowed for the illusion of heroism. The maimed turned that illusion into an uncomfortable odor.

Danny couldn't remember how many times he had driven down this particular stretch of highway.

Dare my guilty heart admit the horrible acknowledgement that I love you still?

Dante: Evergreens aren't supposed to die Renee: Everything Dies ..

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath.

darkness falls upon Humanity and faces become terrible things that wanted more than there was. all our days are marked with unexpected affronts - some disastrous, others less so but the process is wearing and continuous. attrition rules. most give way leaving empty spaces where people should be. and now as we ready to self-destruct there is very little left to kill which makes the tragedy less and more much much more.

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.

Dark Fae are evil. They do evil things to each other, but there is an unspoken rule that you never harm family." She held him tighter, wishing she could take away his pain with a hug. "Families hurt each other all the time.

Darker the hell, darker the life...darker the death, darker the fear..." the painter's left-hand fingers where drenched in black color, which he kept on scrolling on white paper until he made a... "Raven...darkest like hell and life...raven darkest like fear and death...raven...nevermore

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!

Dark, primitive magic. Swords Against Death.

Darling, I am an insane poet I could have killed For much less Than this; But instead I chose To write This poem

Darkness is but a door, scary not because it opens, but out of fear that it will never close

Darkness and light. Black and white. But which is death, and which is life?

Das Mädchen […] hatte wasserblaue Augen, die so klar waren, als hätten sie noch nie im Leben Leid oder Schrecken gesehen. Und dennoch spiegelte sich darin auch Härte. Was hast du erlebt, dass du dich nun an einen Krieg verkaufst?, hätte Summer sie am liebsten gefragt. Weißt du, was du tust? Weißt du, wie es ist, grausam zu sein, zu leiden und zu sterben?

Das Leben geht weiter. Manchmal fragte ich mich, ob diese Tatsache nicht das Grausamste an unserem Dasein ist. Nicht der Tod und die ihm vorausgehenden Schmerzen, sondern der Fakt, dass ganz gleich, welche Schicksalschläge das Leben für uns bereithält, die Uhren niemals innehalten. Nicht einmal für einen Wimpernschlag. Dabei hat das Universum doch alle Zeit der Welt. Wäre der Unfalltod eines Menschen nicht viel einfacher zu ertragen, wenn sämtliche Autos für einen Moment stehen blieben? Wenn die Wellen, die das Kind ertränkten, nicht mehr rauschten? Nur für eine kurze Zeit, wenigstens die Trauerfeier über, bis der Sarg sich in das Grab gesenkt hätte. Wird uns die Bedeutungslosigkeit unseres Daseins nicht alleine dadurch gewiss gemacht, dass wir neben dem Totenbett eines geliebten Menschen im Krankenhaus stehen und gleichzeitig vor den Fenstern das Lachen spielender Kinder im Park hören könnten? Das Leben geht immer weiter. Immer.

Dead man shouldn’t have no fears. Makes his passing easier.

Dawn and its excesses always reminded me of heaven, a place where I have always known I would not be comfortable.

Dead or not, I have come for his heart and I will have it.

Dave learned that Death is the opposite of peace: it’s struggle, it’s ugly, it’s horrific, it’s dirty. And ultimately, Death is emptiness.

Dead and still in the world was worse than dead and in the ground. Dead in the ground at least gave you the hope of heaven.

Dass man, wenn man sehr müde ist, sagt, man sei todmüde, fiel mir ein, und dass man, wenn man todmüde ist, doch voller Leben ist, und wenn man lebensmüde ist, schon dem Tod nahe.

Davey Jones: Do you fear... death? Do you fear that dark abyss? All your deeds laid bare, all your sins punished?

Dead men cannot take effective action; their power of influence on others lasts only till the grave. Deeds and actions that energise others belong only to the living. Well, then, look at the facts in this case. The Saviour is working mightily among men, every day He is invisibly persuading numbers of people all over the world, both within and beyond the Greek-speaking world, to accept His faith and be obedient to His teaching. Can anyone, in face of this, still doubt that He has risen and lives, or rather that He is Himself the Life? Does a dead man prick the consciences of men...?

Dead. Even in the silence of my mind I cannot think the word. I cannot acknowledge this most obvious and terrible of truths.

Dead is dead. For whatever reason. And in choice between life and death, there is no other choice.

Dead. Never been that before. Not even once.

Dear Whoever-that-just-found-out-that-they-have-a-terminal-illness, don't let that put you down. Technically, we are all dying.

Dear Lord please show me what really matters so that I may be able to determine what is distraction and God's direction in my life.

Death actually never kills you, time does