Best 9776 quotes in «death quotes» category

We need the life… We need to know what we take left someone weaker or dead. It reminds us what we were. The Hunger when you start out, it isn't in the stomach or brain. You want to kill because you hate that others get to live.

We never actively remember death,' Odenigbo said. The reason we live as we do is because we do not remember that we will die. We will all die.

We now have the advantage of a few years more of life, but death is still standing at the end of the road.

We often pity the poor, because they have no leisure to mourn their departed relatives, and necessity obliges them to labor through their severest afflictions: but is not active employment the best remedy for overwhelming sorrow--the surest antidote for despair? It may be a rough comforter: it may seem hard to be harassed with the cares of life when we have no relish for its enjoyments; to be goaded to labor when the heart is ready to break, and the vexed spirit implores for rest only to weep in silence: but is not labor better than the rest we covet? and are not those petty, tormenting cares less hurtful than a continual brooding over the great affliction that oppresses us? Besides, we cannot have cares, and anxieties, and toil, without hope--if it be but the hope of fulfilling our joyless task, accomplishing some needful project, or escaping some further annoyance.

Wenn mich im Kärntner Drautal nicht so viele Menschen verachten und hassen würden, hätte ich mich schon längst den Garaus gemacht, aber denen den Gefallen tun? Nur über meine Leiche! Nein, nein, es bleibt dabei, die Lebenden sollen doch nicht von den Toten auferstehn, denn bei den Toten bin ich gerne, sie tun mir nichts und sind auch Menschen.

Wenn man noch nicht das Leben kennt, wie sollte man den Tod kennen.

We pass away out of the world as grasshoppers, and our life is astonishment and fear, and we are not worthy to obtain mercy.

We owe death our last breath but not one breath more.

We owe our very lives to the soil, and, as William Bryant Logan said, “the bodies we give it back are not payment enough.” Though, presumably, they are a start.

We only live once. We all have an expiration date after that we will never come again. I am not saying that to make you sad. I am saying that so you can cherish each moment in your life and be grateful that you are here and you are Special

We push away what we can never understand; we push away the unimaginable.

We're all drowning, but don't say it out loud.

We're all suicides. The tragedy is every day that we don't die.

We’re all afraid to die. So we pretend there’s something else out there for us to make ourselves feel better. Only, there’s not. We’re all alone.

We’re all carrying our coffins with us every day.” Or “We are all constantly cheating death.

We’re all little miracles,” she said, “everything about us: all our stupid habits and our jokes and our weird faces, on a spinning ball that’s the perfect distance from the sun. And now here we are, you and me, sitting on top of a million years of history.

We're always on breath away from something--living or dying--, sometimes it just can't be helped.

We’re all just people making decisions and accepting consequences as we march toward an impending and inevitable death.

We're all on death row, ultimately. Are you so stupid that don't see that? Sure, you kids in here, as enemies of the system, will assuredly die earlier than most. As well you should. But all of us everywhere have a one-way ticket to death.

We reach the end of our lives long before we reach the end of ourselves.

We read off the ancient Hebrew words, with no idea of what they might mean, and the congregation responds with more words that they don't understand either. We are gathered together on a Saturday morning to speak gibberish to each other, and you would think, in these godless times, that the experience would be empty, but somehow it isn't. The five of us, huddled together shoulder to shoulder over the bima, read the words aloud slowly, and the congregation, these old friends and acquaintances and strangers, all respond, and for reasons I can't begin to articulate, it feels like something is actually happening. It's got nothing to do with God or souls, just the palpable sense of goodwill and support emanating in waves from the pews around us, and I can't help but be moved by it. When we reach the end of the page, and the last "amen" has been said, I'm sorry that' it's over. I could stay up here a while longer. And as we step down to make our way back to the pews, a quick survey of the sadness in my family's wet eyes tells me that I'm not the only one who feels that way. I don't feel any closer to my father than I did before, but for a moment there I was comforted, and that's more than I expected.

We're not words, Henry, we're people. Words are how others define us, but we can define ourselves any way we choose.

we're just paper on a shelf, in the end

We're nothing. We're dust.

We rehearse for the big death through the little death of orgasm, through erotic living. Death as transfiguration

We're in the Maker's keeping. Even if we die trying, death is just another way out. But you? You'll just turn to dust.

We’re on the wrong side of night,” Red murmurs inside the mirror, and she’s right.

We’re organisms; we’re conceived, we’re born, we live, we die, and we decay. But as we decay we feed the world of the living: plants and bugs and bacteria.

We sail in leaky bottoms and on great and perilous waters; and to take a cue from the dolorous old naval ballad, we have heard the mer-maidens singing, and know that we shall never see dry land any more. Old and young, we are all on our last cruise. If there is a fill of tobacco among the crew, for God's sake pass it round, and let us have a pipe before we go!

We search for happiness across every landscape, if only we knew that the seed in which it first grows, is planted within ourselves...

We're roughage," Tyger said. "If we don't cause a little intestinal distress, no one knows we're there.

We resent the thought that anything can please us when someone we love is no longer here to share the pleasure with us, and we almost feel as if we were unfaithful to our sorrow when we find out interest in life returning to us.

We're so old that the winds of age echo along our ribs and pick at our eye sockets. We could be gone tomorrow. A chill, say, or a little slip on the cliff side. I feel as fragile as a dried flower. I rattle a little in the moving air, but I'm only coherent dust-a shape of what once was. My essence is going.

Were the happiness of the next world as closely apprehended as the felicities of this, it were a martyrdom to live; and unto such as consider none hereafter, it must be more than death to die, which makes us amazed at those audacities that durst be nothing and return into their chaos again. Certainly such spirits as could contemn death, when they expected no better being after, would have scorned to live, had they known any.

We're truly alive when facing the prospect of our own mortality, if you convince yourself that you'll live forever, you'll never really have lived at all.

We say that a man's dead when his heart stops and not before. It seems a bit arbitrary. After all, parts of your body don't stop working - air goes on growing for years, for instance. Perhaps a man really dies when his brain stops, when he loses the power to take in a new idea. Old Porteous I like that. Wonderfully learned, wonderfully good taste - but he's not capable of change. Just says that same things and thinks the same thoughts over and over again. There are a lot of people like that. Dead minds, stopped inside. Just keep moving backwards and forwards on the same little track, getting fainter all the time, like ghosts.

We should be sure that in our pursuit of happiness and positivity, we do not lose our ability to experience the other side of life, as well. Feelings of grief and respect for the departed, are honourable thoughts to have and honourable feelings to feel. In seeking happiness, we must not be so afraid of sorrow, that we lose the ability to cope with it properly. There is a healthy way to cope with both sorrow and joy; both need to be looked straight in the face, in the eyes.

We spend almost our entire lives arguing over who’s good and who’s bad. Who is greedy and who is just a bleeding heart. Who’s part of the problem and who’s part of the solution. But in the end, I’m not sure if it really matters, because death doesn’t care what your opinions are.

We stand on the edge of the abyss, across whose unknowable face we paint meaning so as not to see into it. It is always there. But we’re here too, and we are no less real than the abyss. We are no less meaningful for being transient creatures caught up in something too big for us. There is still value to our lives. I’ve learned that those things that are most fragile are also the most precious.

We stand in black to watch this rite performed, the body in the box, the box in the hole, the dirt on the box.

We tend to get a little information before we off people. It’s not a play by ear sort of deal.

We understood it was possible to know things one was not supposed to know…” Lone Walk From Panther Creek.

We took such care of tomorrow, but died on the way there.

We've got this idea that there are only two options in grief: you're either going to be stuck in your pain, doomed to spend the rest of your life rocking in a corner in your basement wearing sackcloth, or you're going to triumph over grief, be transformed, and come back even better than you were before. Just two options. On, off. Eternally broken or completely healed. It doesn't seem to matter that nothing else in life is like that. Somehow when it comes to grief, the entire breadth of human experience goes out the window.

We were all survivors—every last one of us who limped our way out to the sidewalks that afternoon and spit in Death’s cold face.

We were a religious sect consisting of two people, and now half the congregation was gone. There would be no closure, no healing. I would simply adjust myself to a new and severely depleted reality. The world would come to an end, as it always does, one world at a time.

We weep as we witness the dead of a loved one.

We were doing the best we could with what we had left, and more and more it was like Diogenes tossing away the tin cup because he could drink with his hands. It turns out there is no end to learning what you can do without.

We will die and we fear death. This fear is worldwide and transcultural. It probably has significant survival value. Those who wish to postpone or avoid death can improve the world, reduce its perils, make children who will live after us, and create great works by which they will be remembered.

We were playing a game against an unknown and unforgiving opponent. The stakes were terrible—play well or die—but we didn’t even know the ground rules.