Best 651 quotes in «dead quotes» category

After a certain point, all natural bodily changes are for the worst.

Across the world millions of lives are altered by the absence of the dead, but three members of Teddy's last crew—Clifford the bomb-aimer, Fraser, the injured pilot, and Charlie, the tail-end Charlie—all bail out successfully from F-Fox and see out the rest of the war in a POW camp. On their return they all marry and have children, fractals of the future.

Achilles weeps. He cradles me, and will not eat, nor speak a word other than my name.

A dead man’s vanity: his ashes full of life that cannot be deceased before a living being’s pride.

After Chopin's death, Polish patriots cut up his body to take out his heart. They nationalized this poor muscle and buried it in Poland. A dead person is treated either as trash or as a symbol. Either way, it's the same disrespect to his vanished individuality.

After the fire died down, what remained were two charred hearts, that once beat as one.

After torturing our adrenaline by watching a horror movie for a couple of hours the places we are most afraid of are the doors and windows of the room even though they are the only ways for us to escape in case of occurrence such an event.

Again he shook his head. The world's gone mad, he thought. The dead walk about and I think nothing of it. The return of corpses has become trivial in import. How quickly one accepts the incredible if only one sees it enough!

AIDS would have claimed fewer lives if we had publicly recommended what I wish to call ‘The Presumption of Sickness,’ i.e., the principle that whomever we are about to sleep with is HIV-positive until proven HIV-negative.

Alas! he is cold, he cannot answer me.

Alex, please.” He balls his fists. “Stop saying my name. You don’t know me anymore.” “I do know you.” I’m still crying, swallowing back spasms in my throat, struggling to breathe. This is a nightmare and I will wake up. This is a monster-story, and he has come back to me a terror-creation, patched together, broken and hateful, and I will wake up and he will be here, and whole, and mine again. I find his hands, lace my fingers through his even as he tries to pull away. “It’s me, Alex. Lena. Your Lena. Remember? Remember 37 Brooks, and the blanket we used to keep in the backyard—” “Don’t,” he says. His voice breaks on the word. “And I always beat you in Scrabble,” I say. I have to keep talking, and keep him here, and make him remember. “Because you always let me win. And remember how we had a picnic one time, and the only thing we could find from the store was canned spaghetti and some green beans? And you said to mix them—” “Don’t.” “And we did, and it wasn’t bad. We ate the whole stupid can, we were so hungry. And when it started to get dark you pointed to the sky, and told me there was a star for every thing you loved about me.” I’m gasping, feeling as though I am about to drown; I’m reaching for him blindly, grabbing at his collar. “Stop.” He grabs my shoulders. His face is an inch from mine but unrecognizable: a gross, contorted mask. “Just stop. No more. It’s done, okay? That’s all done now.” “Alex, please—” “Stop!” His voice rings out sharply, hard as a slap. He releases me and I stumble backward. “Alex is dead, do you hear me? All of that—what we felt, what it meant—that’s done now, okay? Buried. Blown away.” “Alex!” He has started to turn away; now he whirls around. The moon lights him stark white and furious, a camera image, two-dimensional, gripped by the flash. “I don’t love you, Lena. Do you hear me? I never loved you.” The air goes. Everything goes. “I don’t believe you.” I’m crying so hard, I can hardly speak. He takes one step toward me. And now I don’t recognize him at all. He has transformed entirely, turned into a stranger. “It was a lie. Okay? It was all a lie. Craziness, like they always said. Just forget about it. Forget it ever happened.” “Please.” I don’t know how I stay on my feet, why I don’t shatter into dust right there, why my heart keeps beating when I want it so badly to stop. “Please don’t do this, Alex.” “Stop saying my name.

A living dog is better than a dead lion

All old building become crypts the moment they're finished, A shrine to a time that's already dead.

Akili yangu itakaponipeleka kwa mgonjwa hospitalini halafu sekunde hiyohiyo jicho langu likacheza au kiungo changu chochote cha mwili kikauma na kuacha ghafla ‘bila’ sababu yoyote, najua kile ninachokifikiria kuhusu mgonjwa huyo ama kitatokea au hakitatokea. Nikifikiria amepona, halafu ghafla kichwa kikaniuma na kuacha, kitakuwa kinyume chake. Yaani, hatapona. Nikifikiria amekufa, halafu ghafla kichwa au kiungo kingine chochote kikaniuma na kuacha, kitakuwa kinyume chake pia. Yaani, hatakufa. Hivyo, nikifikiria amepona, nikifikiria amekufa, na kichwa kikaniuma na kuacha, sekunde hiyohiyo natakiwa kumwombea mgonjwa huyo. Kama ni kupona, apone kama Mungu alivyokusudia; na kama ni kufa, afe kama Mungu alivyokusudia. Si kama Shetani alivyokusudia.

All death matters." "Only to the living.

Although it's great to appear to a feast, home is always sweet, though it may be lonely and cold like death

Always have your own opinion and build upon that. Person without opinion is just like a dead soul!!!

A man without trust might as well be dead.

Amaya went to sit on a bench nearby. She had been to the park numerous times with Agastya, and just being there with another man made her feel like she was cheating. But Agastya was dead. Long gone. She took out his diary and started reading it.

And won’t he grow up to be the healthiest of young men, all because she kept him safe? Ready for the world. Ready to one day conquer it. To travel. Get on a train. Go to work. Get blown out of her life. Maybe she should be having that glass of wine and cigarette after all.

A moment in time is never dead.

And what we’ve been always been is…?” “Is living on borrowed time. Never caring about who’s paying for it, who’s starving somewhere else all jammed together so we can have cheap food, a house, a yard in the burbs … planetwide, more every day, the payback keeps gathering. And meantime the only help we get from the media is boo hoo the innocent dead. Boo fuckin hoo. You know what? All the dead are innocent. There’s no uninnocent dead.” After a while, “You’re not going to explain that, or…” “Course not, it’s a koan.

And instead my beloved, luck sent you back to me colder than ashes, later than shadow.

And out the bus window, here is my dead world come true, my whole dead world in motion.

Anxiety kicked in. I lacked people skills all my life. Any normal human interaction was foreign to me. I don’t know what to say, to not look like a major dork or something. I am weird like that. Always were. The dead – that’s a whole other world we’re talking about. They can’t interfere with my everyday life, other than to annoy me. I can be myself around the dead. The dead are good. The living? Not so much.

Anyone who has experienced a debilitating sleep disorder knows what it is like to be the walking dead.

A passionate person says “over my dead body, I will never give up” and you ask him why, he answers “because I have found something not only to live on, but something to die for”!

A premature death does not only rob one of the countless instances where one would have experienced pleasure, it also saves one from the innumerable instances where one would have experienced pain.

Are the dead restored? The books say no, the night shouts yes. I am twenty, I have reached the age of reason

A riverless silence made the air heavy.

As a character I am dead, as a writer I am not.

A sematary," I say. "A what?" Viola says, looking round at all the square stones marking out their graves. Must be a hundred, maybe two, in orderly rows and well-kept grass. Settler life is hard and it's short and lotsa New World people have lost the battle. "It's a place for burying dead folk," I say. Her eyes widen. "A place for doing what?" "Don't people die in space?" I ask. "Yeah," she says. "But we burn them. We don't put them in holes." She crosses her arms around herself, mouth and forehead frowning, peering around at the graves. "How can this be sanitary?

As an unavoidable result of the inevitable loss of some physical and/or some mental abilities, many a man who has been alive for many years has become a boy again.

A sea of dead infected surrounded him like a pile of sandbags in a machinegun nest.

As for what concerns me in particular I have only in my life carried to an extreme what you have not dared to carry halfway, and what's more, you have taken your cowardice for good sense, and have found comfort in deceiving yourselves. So that perhaps, after all, there is more life in me than in you. Look into it more carefully! Why, we don't even know what living means now, what it is, and what it is called? Leave us alone without books and we shall be lost and in confusion at once. We shall not know what to join on to, what to cling to, what to love and what to hate, what to respect and what to despise. We are oppressed at being men--men with a real individual body and blood, we are ashamed of it, we think it a disgrace and try to contrive to be some sort of impossible generalised man. We are stillborn, and for generations past have been begotten, not by living fathers, and that suits us better and better. We are developing a taste for it. Soon we shall contrive to be born somehow from an idea.

As if the dead really do persist, even in a bottle of wine.

As my hand found his, bitter salt tears spilled from my eyes, in sorrow and pain and regret that I had so utterly failed him.

Astride of a grave and a difficult birth. Down in the hole, lingeringly, the grave digger puts on the forceps. We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener. At me too someone is looking, of me too someone is saying, He is sleeping, he knows nothing. Let him sleep on.

But I was still determined to protect her. It might be the one good thing I would ever do in my life. I wondered if God would even notice.

A year ago, I would've died for certain people. A year later, half of them are dead to me.

Being dead means never having to do anything sneaky.

Being dead does have its advantages.”-Alastor

Being HIV positive doesn’t necessarily mean that you are going to die before each and every person who is HIV negative.

Being skilled in Catsism is like being a ninja only deadlier and not so silent. The only bad thing is the sickening grammar you have to use.

Better beware of the newly dead Of the white-handed ghost And the brightness of these lamps . . .

But it's fair to say that the war's [WWI] dialectic forced those who were more or less alive to go to their death, and gave those who were more or less dead the right to live. And if the war managed only to separate the living from the dead, then the new regime, arriving in its wake, would sooner or later pit them against each other as enemies.

But maybe that's what the dead do. They stay. They linger. Benign and sweet and painful. They don't need us. They echo all by themselves.

Butterfly land on a human just once in life; if you miss that oppurtunity, you have no another chance. Because that butterfly will be dead the next day.

But there are times to talk to the dead, times when the dead want to talk.

But when you make love, the dead stay close, fill the bed, lie along the bodies in tiers, sandwiching all their lives with yours.