Best 9776 quotes in «death quotes» category

Nothing is more sad than the death of an illusion.

Nothing is so well calculated to produce a death-like torpor in the country as an extended system of taxation and a great national debt.

Nothing retains its form; new shapes from old. Nature, the great inventor, ceaselessly contrives. In all creation, be assured, there is no death - no death, but only change and innovation; what we men call birth is but a different new beginning; death is but to cease to be the same. Perhaps this may have moved to that, and that to this, yet still the sum of things remains the same.

Nothing more strongly arouses our disgust than cannibalism, yet we make the same impression on Buddhists and vegetarians, for we feed on babies, though not our own.

Nothing that is really good and God-like dies.

Not one death but many, not accumulation but change, the feed-back proves, the feed-back is the law

Not think of death as an end, but think of it more as a very effective way of cutting down on your expenses.

Now, a corpse, poor thing, is an untouchable and the process of decay is, of all pieces of bad manners, the vulgarest imaginable. For a corpse is, by definition, a person absolutely devoid of savoir vivre.

Now death is death! and yet is not one death Another death? Stabbing is not the same As shooting! Would you say a strangled man Was drown'd? The end is one, the means are many, And there the difference lies!

Now flip, flop, and fly, I don't care if I die.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. And if I should die before I awake, I pray the popular attend my wake.

Now, of all the benefits that virtue confers upon us, the contempt of death is one of the greatest.

Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.

Now the gardener is the one who has seen everything ruined so many times that (even as his pain increases with each loss) he comprehends - truly knows - that where there was a garden once, it can be again, or where there never was, there yet can be a garden.

Now you comprehend your first and final lover / in the dark receding planets of his eyes, / and this is the hour when you know moreover / that the god you have loved always / will descend and lie with you in paradise.

O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done.

O Death, the Consecrator! Nothing so sanctifies a name As to be written--Dead. Nothing so wins a life from blame, So covers it from wrath and shame, As doth the burial-bed.

O death! We thank you for the light that you will shed upon our ignorance.

O comfort-killing night, image of hell, Dim register and notary of shame, Black stage for tragedies and murders fell, Vast sin-concealing chaos, nurse of blame!

Odd how clear it suddenly became, once a person had died, that the body was the very least of him.

O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!

O eloquent, just, and mighty Death! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none hath dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world hath flattered, thou only hath cast out of the world and despised. Thou hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty, and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words, Hic jacet!

Of all footprints, that of the elephant is supreme. Similarly, of all mindfulness meditations, that on death is supreme.

O Death, what are thou? nurse of dreamless slumbers freshening the fevered flesh to a wakefulness eternal.

Of all the events which constitute a person's biography, there is scarcely one ... to which the world so easily reconciles itself as to his death.

O Earth, so full of dreary noises! O men, with wailing in your voices! O delved gold, the wader's heap! O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall! God makes a silence through you all, And "giveth His beloved, sleep.

Of all the gods only death does not desire gifts.

O fool, what else is sleep but chill death's likeness?

Of course you don't die. Nobody dies. Death doesn't exist. You only reach a new level of vision, a new realm of consciousness, a new unknown world.

Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, The clamtrous lapwings feel the leaden death; Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare They fall, and leave their little lives in air.

Often in winter the end of the day is like the final metaphor in a poem celebrating death: there is no way out.

O harmless Death! whom still the valiant brave, The wise expect, the sorrowful invite, And all the good embrace, who know the grave A short dark passage to eternal light.

Oh! death will find me, long before I tire Of watching for you; and swing me suddenly Into the shade and loneliness and mire Of the last land!

Oh! death will find me long before I tire of watching you.

Oh, how small a portion of earth will hold us when we are dead, who ambitiously seek after the whole world while we are living!

Oh Lord! Open the doors of night for me So that I may leave this place and disappear.

Old elephants limp off to the hills to die; old Americans go out to the highway and drive themselves to death with huge cars.

O joy of suffering! To struggle against great odds! to meet enemies undaunted! To be entirely alone with them! to find how much one can stand! To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, death, face to face! To mount the scaffold! to advance to the muzzles of guns with perfect nonchalance! To be indeed a God!

Oh wow. Oh wow. Oh wow.

Oh the grave!--the grave!--It buries every error--covers every defect--extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him!

Older men declare war. But it is the youth that must fight and die.

O my companion, Worldly comfort is an illusion, As soon you get it, it goes.

Old gardeners never die. They just spade away and then throw in the trowel.

On a day of burial there is no perspective--for space itself is annihilated. Your dead friend is still a fragmentary being. The day you bury him is a day of chores and crowds, of hands false or true to be shaken, of the immediate cares of mourning. The dead friend will not really die until tomorrow, when silence is round you again. Then he will show himself complete, as he was--to tear himself away, as he was, from the substantial you. Only then will you cry out because of him who is leaving and whom you cannot detain.

Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.

On a long enough time line, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.

Once one has kissed a cadaver's forehead, there always remains something of it on the lips, an infinite bitterness, an aftertasteof nothingness that nothing can erase.

Once one's up against it, the precise manner of one's death has obviously small importance.

Oh you who have been removed from God in his solitude by the abyss of time, how can you expect to reach him without dying?

One approaches the journey's end. But the end is a goal, not a catastrophe.