Best 9776 quotes in «death quotes» category

Love is a tricky thought. Red blood like red wine abound. Love is a wet dream. Filthy wet. Drowning bones.

Love is funny. Even though you don't have that person anymore, you still have the feeling. You didn't lose your LOVE. You lost the tangible, tactile, sense-sational ability to experience the person or animal you lost.

Love is a spirit, and therefore cannot die a natural death.

Love is like a flower. Its upright when its in harmony and withered when its dead.

Love is the first feeling we felt since birth and the last thing will need in Death.

Love is the reflection of a broken heart in a shattered mirror...

Love is what makes two people sit in the middle of a bench when there is plenty of room at both ends. Love means nothing in tennis,But it's everything in life

Love makes you stupid. Love makes you weak. Love will kill you all one day, and it’s going to kill you today.

Love should not cause suffocation and death if it is truly love. Don't bundle someone into an uncomfortable cage just because you want to ensure their safety in your life. The bird knows where it belongs, and will never fly to a wrong nest.

Love with open hands, with an open heart, knowing that what is given to you will die. It will change. Love anyway. You witness incredible pain in this life. Love anyway.

Love wins when reflections win over reflexes.

Loving a warrior is hard. Dying in the line of duty is an honor to them. They would rather take that road than to dishonor their sacred oath

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Lucky life isn't one long string of horrors and there are moments of peace, and pleasure, as I lie in between the blows.

LUCIFER: I pity thee who lovest what must perish. CAIN: And I thee who lov'st nothing

Lull me to sleep, ye winds, whose fitful sound Seems from some faint Aeolian harp-string caught; Seal up the hundred wakeful eyes of thought As Hermes with his lyre in sleep profound The hundred wakeful eyes of Argus bound; For I am weary, and am overwrought With too much toil, with too much care distraught, And with the iron crown of anguish crowned. Lay thy soft hand upon my brow and cheek, O peaceful Sleep! until from pain released I breathe again uninterrupted breath! Ah, with what subtile meaning did the Greek Call thee the lesser mystery at the feast Whereof the greater mystery is death!

Madlen came to sit beside her on the bed. "Lady Queen," she said with her own particular brand of rough gentleness. "It is not the job of the child to protect her mother. It's the mother's job to protect the child. By allowing your mother to protect you, you gave her a gift. Do you understand me?

Madoka: Won't anyone notice that Mami-san is dead? Homura: Mami Tomoe's only relatives are distant relations. It will be quite some time before anyone files a missing persons report. When one dies on that side of the wards, not even a body is left behind. She'll wind up forever a "missing person"... That is what happens to magical girls in the end. Madoka: ...That's too cruel! Mami-san has been fighting all alone for a long time for everyone's sake! For no one to even notice that she's gone... That's just too lonely a fate... Homura: It is just that kind of contract that gives us the power in the first place. It isn't for anyone else's sake. We fight on for the sake of our own prayer. So for no one to notice... for the world to forget us... That is just something we have to accept.

Mais, j’aurai beau supplier, j’aurai beau me révolter, il n’y aura plus rien pour moi ; je ne serai, désormais, ni heureux, ni malheureux. Je ne peux pas ressusciter. Je vieillirai aussi tranquille que je le suis aujourd’hui dans cette chambre où tant d’êtres ont laissé leur trace, où aucun être n’a laissé la sienne. Cette chambre, on la retrouve à chaque pas. C’est la chambre de tout le monde. On croit qu’elle est fermée, non : elle est ouverte aux quatre vents de l’espace. Elle est perdue au milieu des chambres semblables, comme de la lumière dans le ciel, comme un jour dans les jours, comme moi partout. Moi, moi ! Je ne vois plus maintenant que la pâleur de ma figure, aux orbites profondes, enterrée dans le soir, et ma bouche pleine d’un silence qui doucement, mais sûrement, m’étouffe et m’anéantit. Je me soulève sur mon coude comme sur un moignon d’aile. Je voudrais qu’il m’arrivât quelque chose d’infini !

Mai nei miei viaggi m'ero spinto fino a Adelma. Era l'imbrunire quando vi sbarcai. Sulla banchina il marinaio che prese al volo la cima e la legò alla bitta somigliava a uno che era stato soldato con me, ed era morto. Era l'ora del mercato del pesce all'ingrosso. Un vecchio caricava una cesta di ricci su un carretto; credetti di riconoscerlo; quando mi voltai era sparito in un vicolo, ma avevo capito che somigliava a un pescatore che, già vecchio quando io ero bambino, non poteva più essere tra i vivi. Mi turbò la vista d'un malato di febbri rannicchiato per terra con una coperta sulla testa: mio padre pochi giorni di morire aveva gli occhi gialli e la barba ispida come lui tal quale. Girai lo sgaurdo; non osavo fissare più nessuno in viso. Pensai: "Se Adelma è una città che vedo in sogno, dove non s'incontrano che morti, il sogno mi fa paura. Se Adelma è una città vera, abitata dai vivi, basterà continuare a fissarli perché le somiglianze si dissolvano e appaiano facce estranee, apportatrici d'angoscia. In un caso o nell'altro è meglio che non isista a guardarli." Un' erbivendola pesava una verza sulla stadera e la metteva in un paniere appeso a una cordicella che una ragazza calava da un balcone. La ragazza era uguale a una del mio paese che era impazzita d'amore e s'era uccisa. L'erbivendola alzò il viso: era mia nonna. Pensai: "Si arriva a un momento della vita in cui tra la gente che si è conosciuta i morti sono più dei vivi. E la mente su rifiuta di accettare altre fisionomie, altre espressioni: su tutte le facce nuove che incontra, imprime i vecchi calchi, per ognuna trova la maschera che s'adatta di più". Gli scaricatori salivano le scale in fila, curvi sotto damigiane e barili; le facce erano nascoste da cappucci di sacco; "Ora si tirano su e li riconosco", pensavo, con impazienza e paura. Ma non staccavo gli occhi da loro; per poco che girassi lo sguardo sulla folla che gremiva quelle straducole, mi vedevo assalito da facce inaspettate, riapparse da lontano, che mi fissavano come per farsi riconoscere, come per riconoscermi, come se mi avessero riconosciuto. Forse anch'io assomigliavo per ognuno di loro a qualcuno che era morto. Ero appena arrivato ad Adelma e già ero uno di loro, ero passato dalla loro parte, confuso in quel fluttuare d'occhi, di rughe, di smorfie. Pensai: "Forse Adelma è la città cui si arriva morendo e in cui ognuno ritrova le persone che ha conosciuto. E' segno che sono morto anch'io". Pensai anche: "E' segno che l'aldilà non è felice".

Magicians scorned talking to animals; animal thoughts weren't nearly orderly enough to suit magicians, and were always full of large untidy preoccupations, like sex and death and the next meal.

Maisha ni chanzo cha kwanza cha mauti.

Mais que j'avale des aliments empoisonnés et que je meure de cette façon, sans un coup de feu, sans une détonation, Joseph ne l'acceptait pas. Une mort en sourdine, en coulisses. Une mort de rat, pas de héros. Les femmes ne meurent pas en héros.

Make their exits as gentle and loving as possible...Tell them how good it will be, even if you don't believe it yourself. You're southern, you know how to do that.

Make your life a work of art and you will never die.

Makhluk kecil kembalilah. Dari tiada ke tiada. Berbahagialah dalam ketiadaanmu.

Making money is good, but there's no pockets in a shroud.

Maman est venue. Hier, elle a accroché une icône dans ma chambre d'hôpital. Elle chuchote dans le coin, devant l'icône, se met à genoux. Tout le monde se tait : le professeur, les médecins, les infirmières. Ils pensent que je ne devine pas... Que je ne sais pas que je vais bientôt mourir... Ils ne savent pas que, la nuit, j'apprends à voler...

Mama wasn't dead...exactly. They all said she was, but when Elma was small, she seen Mama creep into her room at night, half-naked, head all bloodied red like when they found her by the well that day, and Elma reckoned dead just meant pretendin' you couldn't move or breathe until nightfall when you got up and walked around like you was free.

Man is mortal; we are dust and to dust we shall return

Making good use of our limited time - the limited time from birth to death, as well as our limited time each day - is the key to developing inner steadiness and calm.

Malady of mortality

Man is mortal.

Man needs only a small patch of earth for his pleasures, and a smaller one still to rest beneath.

Many a death was precipitated by the food, the job, or the medication whose main function was to postpone it.

Many are they that rise up against you. Many there be which say of your soul, ‘’There is no help for you.’’ But the instruments of death is prepared for your cause.

Man's panic does not produce God's power.....sometimes you need to pray before you post on social media.

Many are called, few are chosen.

Many millions of people have lost their lives while trying to save a few minutes.

Many different kinds of sprouts lay torn. Green, purple and orange leaves lay scattered across the dark soil, and the thorn fence surrounding the bed had a fist-sized hole in it. Teacher eased himself into a squat, poked at the inside of the hole. Whatever made the hole had left blood on the thorns. The sprouts looked like wispy ghosts, pale and broken. Their delicate leaves and stems were riddled with bites. Life drained out of them like water dripping from a hanging cloth, and a breeze made them dance sadly. It felt like a funeral. Teacher picked up a gnawed berry and gently squeezed it until purple juice dripped down his thumb. He placed the berry by the plant’s roots. Chandi’s small face bunched up. “Are they dead?” “They’re dying, yes.” Yuvali took her hand. “But their bodies will help other plants grow.

Many marriages would have been laid to rest a long time ago, if they were not on a life-support machine called other people’s opinions and/or expectations.

Many people are dead inside which is why they crave the living artists creative truth.

Many years of altitude sickness in the sea level adapted human should be expected to progress into illness, disease and premature death.

March 1898 What a strange dream I had last night! I wandered in the warm streets of a port, in the low quarter of some Barcelona or Marseille. The streets were noisome, with their freshly-heaped piles of ordure outside the doors, in the blue shadows of their high roofs. They all led down towards the sea. The gold-spangled sea, seeming as if it had been polished by the sun, could be seen at the end of each thoroughfare, bristling with yard-arms and luminous masts. The implacable blue of the sky shone brilliantly overhead as I wandered through the long, cool and sombre corridors in the emptiness of a deserted district: a quarter which might almost have been dead, abruptly abandoned by seamen and foreigners. I was alone, subjected to the stares of prostitutes seated at their windows or in the doorways, whose eyes seemed to ransack my very soul. They did not speak to me. Leaning on the sides of tall bay-windows or huddled in doorways, they were silent. Their breasts and arms were bare, bizarrely made up in pink, their eyebrows were darkened, they wore their hair in corkscrew-curls, decorated with paper flowers and metal birds. And they were all exactly alike! They might have been huge marionettes, or tall mannequin dolls left behind in panic - for I divined that some plague, some frightful epidemic brought from the Orient by sailors, had swept through the town and emptied it of its inhabitants. I was alone with these simulacra of love, abandoned by the men on the doorsteps of the brothels. I had already been wandering for hours without being able to find a way out of that miserable quarter, obsessed by the fixed and varnished eyes of all those automata, when I was seized by the sudden thought that all these girls were dead, plague-stricken and putrefied by cholera where they stood, in the solitude, beneath their carmine plaster masks... and my entrails were liquefied by cold. In spite of that harrowing chill, I was drawn closer to a motionless girl. I saw that she was indeed wearing a mask... and the girl in the next doorway was also masked... and all of them were horribly alike under their identical crude colouring... I was alone with the masks, with the masked corpses, worse than the masks... when, all of a sudden, I perceived that beneath the false faces of plaster and cardboard, the eyes of these dead women were alive. Their vitreous eyes were looking at me... I woke up with a cry, for in that moment I had recognised all the women. They all had the eyes of Kranile and Willie, of Willie the mime and Kranile the dancer. Every one of the dead women had Kranile's left eye and Willie's right eye... so that every one of them appeared to be squinting. Am I to be haunted by masks now?

Married and buried, wed and dead.

Marryin' is the one thing people seem to get worse at the more they do it. Well, that and bein' alive.

Masks camouflage the faces of both good and evil. Keeps hidden what is a truth and what is a lie.

Maybe comfort exists in believing there is order in the world, even when someone is making the most disorderly decision we know: running toward death instead of away from it. In their absence, we're left trying to pin meaning to air.

Maybe it wasn’t the smart thing, but when you lose someone like that? They’re just gone? There’s this hole inside you you’d give anything to fill. You don’t think, you don’t plan, you just pour shit into it, anything that will fill it.

Maybe eventually winter will finish our job for us and end the world in ice instead of blood.