Best 651 quotes in «dead quotes» category

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 a live dog than a dead lion.

Better beware of the newly dead Of the white-handed ghost And the brightness of these lamps . . . wrote Luc Berimont in 1940, in Reign of Darkness. I’ve always felt the greatest reluctance to go anywhere near, to touch, a fresh corpse. For me, it’s an unseemly thing. Useless. Hostile. Cunning. Dangerous. The ‘presence’ is much stronger, more perceptible one hour after death than one hour before. By my observation, this was not the case with Heisserer. He was entirely absent from his head, his hands,his quivering body. He was gone instantly, unburdened of his absurd life, released.

Bravery is the dead man’s virtue.

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 tears don't bring back the dead. I learned that.

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

By all accounts, she should be dead, but she was moving. How was that even possible?

cadavers' intestines hanging like a parade streamers off the sides of tables, skulls bobbing in boiling pots, organs strewn on the floor being eaten by dogs.....

Can you really talk to the dead?" She gave me the look that I was familiar with by now: equal parts derision, skepticism, and curiosity. “How much would it be? I mean, how much do you charge?

‘Can’t you see what they are?’ I said. ‘They’re all dead.’

Caring is a trait of the living. Not of the dead.

Clearly the Old One had the capacity to kill - or easily deliver some sort of final ending that sounded remarkably like death.

Clubs and Bars are a real dead zone.

¿Cómo voy a sobrevivir a esta añoranza? ¿Cómo lo hacen otros? La gente muere constantemente. Todos los días. A todas horas. Hay familias por todo el mundo mirando camas donde ya no duerme nadie, zapatos que ya nadie se pone. Familias que ya no tienen que comprar un cereal en particular, un tipo de champú. Hay gente por todas partes haciendo cola en los cines, comprando cortinas, paseando perros, mientras que dentro, sus corazones se están haciendo jirones. Durante años. Durante todas sus vidas. No creo que el tiempo cure. No quiero que lo haga. Si yo me curo, ¿no significa eso que he aceptado el mundo sin ella?

compressed into boxes, packed in sawdust,... trussed up in sacks, roped up like hams...

Conflict occurs everywhere except in the cemetery. Everyone experiences conflict except the dead. Thankful for being alive...

Crap. It's all crap. Living is crap. Life has no meaning. None. Nowhere to be found. Crap. Why doesn't anybody realize this?

Crazy is such a misunderstood term. I like to think that I march to the beat of my own drummer.

Daddy?” “I’m right here, baby.” Lumps form in my throat, going all the way down into the core of me. It’s his voice. His. Right there. I reach toward the doorknob but I don’t get to turn it. Nick smashes at me with his head, pushing against my lower jaw and cheek, like a blow. His muzzle moves my head away from the door. He presses his face in between me and the wood. Fur gets in my mouth. I spit it out and push at him. “That’s my dad. My dad.” I slap the door. “He’s on the other side. The pixies will get him.” Nick shows me his teeth. “I can’t lose him again, Nick.” The wolf snarls like he’s ready to bite. My head jerks back and away, but then I steady myself. “Get . . . out . . . of . . . the . . . way.” Pushing against his thick neck, I slam my hands against him over and over again, pummeling him. He doesn’t budge. “Move!” I order. “Move.” “Zara, is there a wolf in there with you? Do not trust him,” my dad’s voice says, calmly, really calmly. I grab a fistful of fur and freeze. All at once it hits me that something is not right. My dad would never be calm if I was in my bedroom with a wolf. He’d be stressed and screaming, breaking the door down, kicking it in like he did once when I was really little and had accidentally locked myself in the bathroom and couldn’t get the lock out of the bolt because it was so old. He’d kicked that door down, splintering the wood, clutching me to him. He’d kissed my forehead over and over again. “I’d never let anything happen to you, princess,” he’d said. “You’re my baby.” My dad would be kicking the door in. My dad would be saving me. “Let me in,” he says. “Zara . . .” Letting go of Nick, I stagger backward. My hands fly up to my mouth, covering it. Nick stops snarling at me and wags his fluffy tail. How would my dad know that it is a wolf in here and not a dog? How would he know that it isn’t pixies? I shudder. Nick pounds next to me, pressing his side against my legs. I drop my hands and plunge my fingers into his fur, burying them there, looking for something. Maybe comfort. Maybe warmth. Maybe strength. Maybe all three.

Dead, but not allowed to die. Alive, but as good as dead.

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

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.

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

Come now, I was not about to let that thing eat you.

Como si fuera más digno morirse de leucemia que de SIDA. Como si fuera indigno ser sidoso. Como si en la muerte hubiera alguna dignidad

Dear Matt, In less than a day, I’ ll be standing on the same sand you stood on so many times before. Well, not the same sand, with the tides and winds and erosion and all of that, but the same symbolic sand. I’m so excited and scared that I can’ t sleep – even though I have to wake up in five hours! You know, I saved every one of your postcards. They’re here in a box under my bed – all the little stories you sent, like little pieces of California. Like the beach glass you guys always brought me. Sometimes I dump it out on my desk and press my ear to the pieces, trying to hear the ocean. Trying to hear you. But you don’ t say anything. Remember how you’ d come back from your vacation on the beach and tell me what it really felt like? What the ocean sounded like at dawn when the beach was deserted? What your hair and skin tasted like after swimming in saltwater all day? How the sand could burn your feet as you walked on it, but if you stuck your toes in, it was cold and wet underneath? How you spent three hours sitting on Ocean Beach just to watch the sun sink into the water a million miles away? If I closed my eyes as you were talking, it was like I was there, like your stories were my stories. In many ways, I feel as if I have memories of you there, too. Do you think that’s crazy? Matt, please don’ t think badly about Frankie’s contest. It’s just a silly game. It’s so Frankie, you know? No, I guess you wouldn’ t. You’ d kill her if you did! She just misses you. We all do. I’ ll look out for her, though. I promise. Please watch over us tomorrow, and for the next few weeks while we’re away. You’ ll be in my thoughts the whole time, like always. I’m going to find some red sea glass for you. I miss you more than you could ever know. Love, Anna

Death has only one hand glove... so it takes away the body, but leaves behind the impacts. Difference makers live twice; in body and in impacts... The former is temporal but the later lasts long!

Death actually never kills you, time does

Death is buried there into death Hunger strikes on its own last breath No spine to shiver, no heart talks At life’s craving poverty mocks From the poem 'Exhumation

Death is misery! The lifeless person was once full of life.

Death is more meaningful than just being dead.

Death is number one on the list of things that we wish were possible to leave behind when we escaped barbarism.

Death would be an extremely bad thing like most of us paint it, if being dead were painful.

Dear God, I must be dead and in hell since you're here.

Did I envy the dead?

Die Blumen lehren uns, dass nichts ewig währt - weder ihre Schönheit noch ihr Welken ist von Dauer. Am Ende geben sie Samen, aus denen neue Tulpen entstehen. Vergiss das nie, wenn du Freude oder Traurigkeit empfindest - alles vergeht, altert, stirbt und wird aufs Neue geboren.

Directing a funeral isn’t about death at all. Funerals are for the living, not the dead.

dJack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack forgot to check if the ice was thick. Emma was still, Emma was late, Emma’s brother is now part of the lake. Time has passed, Time has gone, Time brought Jack back wrong. He was solemn, He was brave, He left his coat on Emma’s grave. Emma was sad, Emma was scared, But she knew inside that Jack really cared. Jack was lost, Jack had forgot, That he had a story before the plot. Jack had wondered, Jack had fought, Jack had remembered what he had forgot. I hope you dream. I hope you wonder. I hope you have fun because this is done. Keep believing everyone. Jack be fearless, Jack be bold, Jack drowned when he was 17 years old.

Does it help?” he asks. “The e-mailing.” She nods. “A tiny bit. It’s strange. You’re writing a letter to someone who’s never going to read it, so it kind of frees you up a bit.

Do not go to my grave. Mary knows, I am not there. Look for me in between pages and on people’s lips. Do not go to my old school. Do not go to my old house — I am not in any of those places. Look for me in your hearts and greet me there.

Don't be so hard on yourself, don't put pressure on yourself, life is just a chain of experiments and results, and you'll be perfect when you're dead.

Don’t worry if you don’t accomplish everything in this life. Fortunately, death overcomes every thing—even the very thing that tried to kill us.

Do you want to stick needles in the living or scalpels in the dead?

Etymological fallacy is the worst sort of pedantry: a meaningless personal opinion trying to dress itself up as concern for preserving historical principles. It misses that language change itself is a historical principle: a language that doesn't change is a dead language

Even Jesus, three days, died. Who is strong doesn't make the strong. (Même Jésus, trois jours, est mort. Qui est fort ne fait le fort)

Even those who want to go to heaven would rather kill than be killed.

Dead or alive, true leaders can inspire an entire army.