Best 9776 quotes in «death quotes» category

People usualy use "move on" when their heart broke because of love. Most don't understand when father, mother, sister or brother has died, you might have needed more strength to move on. It was like living with no air.

People who don't like math always accuse mathematicians of trying to make math complicated. (...) But anyone who does love math knows it's really the opposite: math rewards simplicity, and mathematicians value it above all else. So it's no surprise that Walter's favourite axiom was also the most simple in the realm of mathematics: the axiom of the empty set. The axiom of the empty set is the axiom of zero. it states that there must be a concept of nothingness, that there must be the concept of zero: zero value, zero items. Math assumes there's a concept of nothingness, but is it proven? No. But it must exist. And if we're being philosophical—which we today are—we can say that life itself is the axiom of the empty set. It begins in zero and ends in zero. We know that both states exist, but we will not be conscious of either experience: they are states that are necessary parts of life, even as they cannot be experienced as life. We assume the concept of nothingness, but we cannot prove it. But it must exist. So I prefer to think that Walter has not died but has instead proven for himself the axiom of the empty set, that he has proven the concept of zero. I know nothing else would have made him happier. An elegant mind wants elegant endings, and Walter had the most elegant mind. So I wish him goodbye; I wish him the answer to the axiom he so loved.

People who maximize their potentials don’t even die; they live forever as long as this earth remains. They don’t die in the real sense because they still live after their death. They live in their products, they live in their legacies. In other words, because their products, their impact, and legacies still live on even after they are dead; they don’t actually die in the real sense.

People who make great impact are well remembered due to the empty seats that remain after their death. It takes time to fill the empty seats that are left unoccupied by people who walked great in great footprints.

Perhaps a sense of death is like a sense of humour. We all think the one we've got - or haven't got - is just about right, and appropriate to the proper understanding of life. It's everyone else who's out of step.

Perhaps it is only when we realize and celebrate the intrinsic value of every human life that celebrity - true celebrity - shines most brightly. On our deathbeds, none of us will speak of the jobs we’ve held or the stuff we’ve acquired in our lifetimes; here bull markets and Nielsen ratings are irrelevant. A life-threatening illness jettisons pretension in no time flat. Death is the great equalizer. Death dares us to define what really matters.

Perhaps Hurston saw in her mother, Lucy, a version of Persephone, who is so missed when she's gone that the world literally starts to die. This type of grief, as Toni Morrison writes in Sula, has no top and no bottom, "just circles and circles of sorrow.

Perhaps I can never go back and say what I should have. Perhaps I can never look forward and tell myself I'll be something specific. Perhaps I can just let the hands of time and the hands of God create a path for me from the decisions I've made. Or, is it, that only death is absolute when God is the only thing in control of time?

Perhaps it's impolite to die so flippantly, after all she's done for me.

Perhaps a human simply falls back into himself upon the disintegration of his physical body, and continues to take form within the self of himself, simply returning from whence he came.

Perhaps because it seems so appropriate, I don't notice the rain. It falls in sheets, a blanket of silvery thread rushing to the hard almost-winter ground. Still, I stand without moving at the side of the coffin.

Perhaps death is just a big lie.

Perhaps death represents the severing of the living organism's connection with the orderly quantum realm, leaving it powerless to resist the randomizing forces of thermodynamics.

perhaps it only applies in the States, where emotional optimism is a constitutional duty

Perhaps it was the approach of death that had opened his eyes wide and made him see so clearly.

Perhaps one suffers in the tomb. There are corpses that have strange grimaces on their faces when they’re disinterred, as if they remember down there all the filth of this life.

...perhaps, when it got utterly dark, the peace of the darkness would become the same as light so that my last experience would become as mysterious and musical as my first, so that in my last darkness there might not be the same need of understanding anything so far away as the world anymore.

Perhaps this was a day of firsts. The day one dies, of course, is a first in any life.

Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, which is the only fact we have.

perhaps you know that Ingeborg Bachmann poem from the last years of her life that begins "I lose my screams" dear Antigone, I take it as the task of the translator to forbid that you should ever lose your screams

Personal effects: how irrelevant they are, how sad, how lost, how vagrant, without the force that gives them purpose.

Personal Neon - Poem by Falguni Ray I am devoid of genius that is why I can touch my nose with my tongue and prove that I am really a genius Sometimes while walking in front of Manik Bandyopadhyay's house I brood about the street on which he once walked I am also on the same road, but worthless, Falguni Ray walking, sometimes I travel in second class in trams and I imagine this was the tram that overran and crushed the body of Jibanananda Das This is the way I travel-- earth sun stars accompany me.

Perverse obsessions And it is only now That I realize I am bleeding Now no air now dead And that it was your careful strike That made it so

Petra, people tell me that I will 'move on' and I can't believe it. But if it ever does happen, and I forget to feel this pressing absence of you, if I make it through a meaningless party and don't remember to hate everyone for their peaceful lives until the morning, please know that I am already sorry. I am going to try to be brave like you asked me to, but I don't have any idea yet what that means. Is it braver to allow the sadness of your leaving to spread into each of my bones until it is as big as you were to me? Or is it braver to let you drift out into what may very well be a brighter, finer place than this and be happy to think of your joy there? I hope, Petra, that I get it right.

Phoebe asked me, "Tell me, what do you think of the afterlife?" I was a bit nonplussed. I had no idea what she thought, but I knew that the question must be of greater interest to someone of her age than to me. But our conversation had been completely honest, and before I could speak, honesty and tact had joined hands in my answer. "I have no faith at all," I said, "but sometimes I have hope." I rather think," she replied, "that total annihilation is the most comfortable position." I was shaken. The horse clopped on. The children laughed behind us. When I die," she said, "I don't expect to see any of my loved ones again. I'll just become a part of all this." She waved her hand at the surrounding countryside. "That's all right with me.

Places change imperceptibly – in detail, at least – a good deal,' said the Doctor, making an effort to keep up a conversation that plainly would not go on itself; 'and people too; population shifts – there's an old fellow, sir, they call Death.

(...) pick up your axe, start at the roots don't miss the trunk, never forget: to end life truly and finally start at the roots or end there.

Pity Catherine Martin won't ever see the sun again. The sun's a mattress fire her God died in, Clarice.

Plans never go as planned, ever; that’s just how life is. People spend way too much time dreaming about a future they should be having more nightmares warning them against. But that doesn't mean you should let those bad dreams scare you away; all those nightmares want is respect. If you give them that, they’ll give you the space you need. Unless, of course, they’re the type of nightmares that have an appetite, then you’re fucked.

Please, do keep digging your own grave. I look forward to your splendidly inevitable demise.” – Dread Emperor Benevolent the First

Please not yet. Those are the three eternal words. Please not yet.

Please remind them that none of us have all the time we think we have in this troubled but still beautiful world.

Please stop buying my friends if you are just going to slowly kill them.

Please don't die.

Poetry is death and death is poetry.

(Poetry) helped me to find a silver lining in even the darkest emotions, experiences, observations and topics; find positivity even in the face of extreme negativity; find strength when I was being forced to feel weak; and find hope that my tomorrows would be brighter.

Poets are interested primarily in death and commas.

Poets never die, I thought. They just fail in the end.

Political prisoners describe: - extreme physical and emotional torture - distortion of language, truth, meaning and reality - sham killings - begin repeatedly taken to the point of death or threatened with death - being forced to witness abusive acts on others - being forced to make impossible "choices" - boundaries smashed i.e. by the use of forced nakedness, shame, embarrassment - hoaxes, 'set ups', testing and tricks - being forced to hurt others Ritual abuse survivors often describe much the same things.

Poi ho capito che forse andava bene così: forse va bene anche amare qualcuno pur sapendo che finirà, che tu morirai e quella persona morirà, o che tu andrai da un’altra parte e non la rivedrai mai più, perché è questo che significa essere vivi. La vita sta proprio tutta qui: amare qualcuno.

Poor little girl. Poor little girl," Nan says, and at first I think she is speaking of the baby, perhaps it is a girl after all. But then I realize she is speaking of me, a girl of thirteen years, whose own mother has said that they can let her die as long as a son and heir is born.

Ponder now by thyself, how great fruit of wickedness the grain of evil seed had brought forth. And when the ears shall be cut down, which are without number, how great a floor shall they fill?

Poor little corpses! It was too bad they were dead. He couldn't play with them. Even though they really stank. He couldn't stand the smell. They deserved to die for smelling so bad.

Por lo general puedo evocar bastante bien hechos en los que la muerte, el amor y la mierda han estado simultáneamente involucrados.

Possibility of enjoying life makes death feel terrible.

Popularity is teenage heroin.

Por entonces, en octubre de 1902, el padre de Max, que obstinadamente desaprobaba el uso de abrigos, cogió una pulmonía. Murió tres días, después, a los cuarenta y cuatro años.

~Posters with torn edges hanging from rotten walls~ The doctor told me something once she said STOP DRINKING I slapped her across the face with this NO I walked right out of that office went right down to the hole I told the bartender WHISKEY, MOTHERFUCKER he poured and he poured and I slapped my money down on that bar the man I had been driving around with he just sort of sat there next to this hooker she probably had something rotten way down there between her legs her eyes told of no soul I emptied the bottle down my throat and ordered some chips the bartender told me THEY'RE STALE and I give him a I DON'T FUCKIN' CARE, GIVE ME SOMETHIN' He slid me a ham sandwich dripping with cheap low-fat mayo and said ENJOY I went back to my room and talked all night so much conversation it turned the toilet bowl pale

Poverty is like a crumb that sits at a table, and starves itself to death.

Pour ma part, même s'il m'était difficile de l'admettre, je menais la vie de ceux qui choisissent obstinément de mourir, mais qui espèrent que le monde se chargera de la besogne.