Best 9776 quotes in «death quotes» category

She was gone but it seemed she was still always there, right at the center.

She was not a vegetarian and knew firsthand animals had to die for her delectation, but she never liked to think about it.

She was now drowning in that pool of desires without having any idea about the depth of it.

She was crouched in the corner of the room, eating something off the floor. It was the old woman dressed in endless black. When she looked up this time there was no question she was there for me. She had the face of my mother but much older, her ancient decayed mouth coming closer for her good-night kiss. I steeled myself against her putrid smell, the mouthful of bitter dust, but as her lips touched mine it was like biting into a purple black plum whose fruit was brilliant red, like an explosion of intense joy. Its childhood smell wrinkled my nose with pleasure, its sweet juices ran down my chin, turning into a beautiful black ocean where I floated safely, not lost as I had imagined, but securely tucked away deep in space.

She was doing just what it looked like she was doing, lying about, half-awake and half-asleep, passing the time and waiting for something to change. Because it seemed very clear to her, in those first few days, that what she felt was so intolerable that it couldn't possibly last, and if she did nothing to distract herself from it, she'd use it up, and then she'd be able to get up, and move about, and care once again about her duties to her people, about her constitutional obligations to dancing and singing and feasting and praising the movements of the stars. She didn't consider at all--she didn't dare to consider--that the sources of grief inside her might be inexhaustible.

She was dry, dry inside like a ten-thousand-year-old tomb, with the last of her life barely dampening the dirt underneath.

She was living in a time when historically it was permissible to smile like that above the face of someone who had died a violent death.

She was made mostly of coffee and empty spaces.

She was few inches taller than him and when for the first time her promising eyes met with his, he knew it would be more than friendship. He was too young to name that feeling then. But love...above all relationships knows no age.

She was infected and she would eventually die. It was a cold hard fact. They all knew it.

She was lost now, she'd been silenced- another dead branch on Cordova's warped tree.

she wasn't very interesting but few people are.

She wasted and grew so thin that she no longer was a little girl, but the shadow of a little girl. The flame of her life flickered so faintly that it appeared sufficient to blow at it to extinguish it. Stas understood that death did not have to wait for a third attack to take her and he expected it any day or any hour.

She was too exhausted and downcast to take in the importance of the news- just as a person who has shed so many tears at the bedside of someone who is dying has none left for the actual moment of death.

She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, a tiny, bloody angel in the snow, and they were going to destroy her.

She was smiling as she imagined herself as one more star in the sea of millions, and her body decided it had had enough, and she felt the exact moment when her power source gave up and the hum of electricity extinguished. But she was already vast and bright and endless.

She was so full of holes now, she was like a Swiss cheese.

She was such a sweet and funny person. To see her looking like something he has come to hate was a shot to the heart.

She watched as the dancing lights of madness swirled and flickered in his eyes like the fires of hell, and she knew that there would never be anything that could quench those fires except death. Vanessa knew that Jango had become his own Grim Reaper.

She who dies with the most toys is, nonetheless, still dead.

She would die, and maybe everyone would forget that she had ever lived.

She wouldn't even get the chance to say a proper goodbye. If he died before she returned, her last memory of him would be this one.

She would stay there, flying across the sea like a mermaid with wings, until the end.

She wouldn’t be able to let him go. She would hold onto him with everything she had.

Shine in any season of your life! Head on with confidence in your life’s pilgrim! In deep faith, countless hope and unconditional love blessed by the Almighty. Newness of each rising day, bringing forth colourful sunsets. Enkindle your soul once more with courage, joy and love, flowing in a river of awakening & sharing: with a heart who once knew that hurt, pain, loss… means to SHINE!

She wished that when her heart was beating double, she could give one of those hearts to him and then press her ear to his chest and feel it beating.

shot in the eye shot in the brain shot in the ass shot like a flower in the dance amazing how death wins hands down amazing how much credence is given to idiot forms of life amazing how laughter has been drowned out amazing how viciousness is such a constant I must soon declare my own war on their war I must hold to my last piece of ground I must protect the small space I have made that has allowed me life my life not their death my death not their death this place, this time, now I vow to the sun that I will laugh the good laugh once again in the perfect place of me forever. their death not my life.

Shiva is saying: the body is a product of nature and your will to do. The nature is merely the source, the womb. Your ego functions like a seed in it. Your will to do this or that, to achieve this or that, to become this or that – acts like a seed. And the moment the art of your doing meets the womb of nature, a body is formed. Therefore, buddhas say: ”Give up all desires, only then will you be liberated.: If you desired for heaven, you will become an angel, but that won’t be liberation either. Because as long as desires persist, there can never be any liberation. All desires lead to the formation of bodies.

Should the measure of a man be the number of mourners at his funeral? What if he was not close to anyone but himself?

Show your compassion to people in their life time; no amount of your tears can serve as compensation when their coffins are lowered!

Shut up,” I snapped. “This is not the time. What part of this situation seems like a joke to you?” Lohka pulled up his knees, giving a feeble, half-manic little laugh. “Oh, maybe just the idea that some soul-devouring being of chaos could be waiting anywhere to finish destroying my life,” he said. “That’s kind of hilarious, you know. Have you ever had a soul-devouring being of chaos hunting you down so it could finish eating you?” “No,” I said. “I’m sorry, Lohka.” “That’s nice,” he muttered. “What about the part where this soul-devouring being of chaos seems to have a taste for me at the moment?” Zhabyr asked. “Can we worry about that, now? Because I kind of already am.

Sickness, disease and premature death may be the outcome for those that cannot figure out how to adapt to the man-made world that the Industrial Revolution has created.

Shriveled apple cores stood side by side on the window sill, a long row of them with their seed chambers bitten open and the pointed sees scattered on the floor. The brown, discolored remnants of their flesh bore the imprint of his grandfather's teeth. That was the image This was left with, the one that ever since was the first to recur when he thought of his dead grandfather: shriveled apple cores on the sill of a window that looked out onto an overgrown garden.

Shut your eyes,” said Miss Tanner. “Oh no,” said Miranda, “for then I see worse things…

Shrouded as he was for a decade in an apparent cloak of anonymity and obscurity, Osama bin Laden was by no means an invisible man. He was ubiquitous and palpable, both in a physical and a cyber-spectral form, to the extent that his death took on something of the feel of an exorcism. It is satisfying to know that, before the end came, he had begun at least to guess at the magnitude of his 9/11 mistake. It is essential to remember that his most fanatical and militant deputy, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, did not just leave his corpse in Iraq but was isolated and repudiated even by the minority Sunnis on whose presumed behalf he spilled so much blood and wrought such hectic destruction. It is even more gratifying that bin Laden himself was exposed as an excrescence on the putrid body of a bankrupt and brutish state machine, and that he found himself quite unable to make any coherent comment on the tide—one hopes that it is a tide, rather than a mere wave—of demand for an accountable and secular form of civil society. There could not have been a finer affirmation of the force of life, so warmly and authentically counterposed to the hysterical celebration of death, and of that death-in-life that is experienced in the stultifications of theocracy, where womanhood and music and literature are stifled and young men mutated into robotic slaughterers.

Signý knew she would die a thousand deaths upon seeing another woman with him, bearing his children, raising them with him. All the while, Signý, caged in his dungeons, hearing all the painful details of his life with someone else, drowning in her own despair, her love for him turning to hatred. A more tragic life, she could not imagine.

Simple, powerful, poignant, the Sign of the Cross is a mnemonic device like the Mass, in which we sit down to table with one another and remember the Last Supper, or a baptism, where we remember John the Baptist's brawny arm pouring some of the Jordan River over Christ. So we remember the central miracle and paradox of the faith that binds us each to each: that we believe, against all evidence and sense, in life and love and light, in the victory of those things over death and evil and darkness.

Silver mining in the United States didn’t start, like hard-core, until the mid-1850s,” Louis said. “And only really got big when the Comstock Lode was discovered in 1859 in California.” “It was bad work. Dangerous. Like any mining. But silver also lets out fumes when it’s mined. Even Pliny the Elder wrote about how harmful the fumes were, especially to animals. You know Pliny the Elder?” “The problem with the silver fumes,” Louis continued, “is that, over time, they gave the miners delusions. Bad enough that they had to stop mining. Their health deteriorated. And a bunch of them even died.” Hard to make fun of something like that, so Pepper didn’t. “Do you know what people would say, in these mining towns, when they saw one of these miners falling apart? Walking through town muttering and swinging at phantoms? They said the Devil in Silver got them. It became shorthand. Like someone might say, ‘What happened to Mike?’ And the answer was always the same. ‘The Devil in Silver got him.’ ” Louis sat straight and crossed his arms and surveyed the table. “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?” “You’re saying we’re just making this thing up,” Pepper said quietly. Louis seemed disappointed. He dropped his hands into his lap and folded them there. He looked at his sister and Pepper. He turned his head to take in the other patients gathered with their family members there in the hospital. “I’m saying they were dying,” Louis said. “They definitely weren’t making that up. But it wasn’t a monster that was killing them. It was the mine.

Simultaneously, the child's life-mongering energy felt a metamorphosis within itself, having lost all matter and yet still being summoned by intoxicating ideas, an aching fluency of desires, a liberating rearranging buoyancy.

Since we live in the heads of those who remember us, we lose control of our lives and become who they want us to be.

Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him, And all their ministers attend on him.

Si quelqu'un vous dit : "Je me tue à vous le répéter", laissez-le mourir.

Si nos deja es para preparar, también un día, nuestra llegada al reino del Señor, para que seamos acogidos con esmero. No imaginé a mi padre con el empeño de prepararme una acogedora llegada al Cielo, ¿me dejaría allí ducharme sin gritarme que cerrara el grifo de una maldita vez? Me costaba imaginar el reencuentro del que hablaba el sacerdote. Como mucho mi padre me aguardaría con su oportuno te lo dije.

Sin is like mold—the longer it lives, the blacker it becomes. And spores can’t be avoided. Never.

Six days, and I have eaten nothing. It is night. I am sitting in my chair. Ah, God! I wonder have any ever felt the horror of life that I have come to know? I am swathed in terror. I feel ever the burning of this dread growth. It has covered all my right arm and side, and is beginning to creep up my neck. To-morrow, it will eat into my face. I shall become a terrible mass of living corruption. There is no escape. Yet, a thought has come to me, born of a sight of the gun-rack, on the other side of the room. I have looked again—with the strangest of feelings. The thought grows upon me. God, Thou knowest, Thou must know, that death is better, aye, better a thousand times than This. This! Jesus, forgive me, but I cannot live, cannot, cannot! I dare not! I am beyond all help—there is nothing else left. It will, at least, spare me that final horror… … . "I think I must have been dozing. I am very weak, and oh! so miserable, so miserable and tired—tired. The rustle of the paper, tries my brain[…]

Six days and six nights I was writing in a paranoid impulse. Full of fear, that the commenced metamorphosis – the reincarnation of the spirit of a dead – might have been disrupted.

Sitting out on the canoe tonight, watching the indigo waters of the South China Sea, I noticed the waxing moon calculating that maybe by the time it is full we’ll be back in the U.S. of A. I shed a few tears for Michael again. I was hoping his ghost would materialize just to let me know there actually is a spiritual realm but no such luck. It was just me, alone. It’s so bizarre. He was here and now… he’s gone. That’s the way it is. We are… and then, we are no more. Two or three loved ones keep our memory alive… and then, they are no more. And we all fade into that massive vapor cloud of forgotten souls. Why were we even here in the first place? I began to stand up. That’s when I saw it. It entered the night sky from the west and streaked to the east, forming a brilliant but thin arc of flame. A shooting star. A meteorite. Was that my confirmation? I would like to think so.

Sitting here, literally amongst the dead, reckoning up gains and losses, casting accounts, I have come to see gains that cannot be reckoned in terms of wealth, and losses that are more damaging than loss of a crop... I look at the River and I see the lifeblood of Egypt that has existed before we lived and that will exist after we die... Life and death, Renisenb, are not of such great account.

Six months It been six months since you passed How long must these feelings of loss last ? It's been six months since you died, on the surface it appears I never really cried. I hide away my tears, my sorrow, my fears. They say time heals all wounds Wounds may heal, but scars remain. No one really sees the pain that hides behind my eyes. A heart of gold stopped beating two twinkling eyes closed to rest God broke our hearts that day to prove he only took the best Never a day goes by that you’re not in our hearts, our minds and in our souls. We miss you dad.

Sleeping is terrifying. When you close your eyes and surrender your consciousness to the void, you lose yourself—voluntarily—and you're trustingly assuming you'll find yourself back out of the labyrinth again. Usually you do. But sometimes you don't. It's that uncertainty, more than anything, which kills me. That I might not wake up, and wouldn't know it. That I could be dead, dreaming I'm alive.