Best 651 quotes in «dead quotes» category

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    Free, I think. They're free. (is this why she joined them?) I feel so- So relieved. I pick up the pace as I near the opening, my hands gripping my rifle but I have a feeling I ain't gonna need it. (ah, Viola, I knew I could count-) Then I reach the opening and stop. Everything stops. My stomach falls right thru my feet. "They're all gone?" Davy says, coming up beside me. Then he see what I see. "What the-?" Davy says. The Spackle ain't all gone. They're still here. Every single one. All 1150 of them. Dead.

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    ... If the dead can come back to this earth and move unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night—amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours—always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or if the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.

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    If there were something that Mother Nature or God could do with money, She or He would have sold immortality to the rich a long time ago.

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    If we don’t wake the hell up and make a stand, it’s only a matter of time before we’re all dead. This is a war we’re fighting and the dead are winning.

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    If you’d saved the girl, you’d be a hero. Next time.

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    I have lost you, my brother And your death has ended The spring season Of my happiness, our house is buried with you And buried the laughter that you taught me. There are no thoughts of love nor of poems In my head Since you died.

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    If you think that one day you gonna lose the all data, you are kind of right from point of view of dead, yeah you will lose it in your mind. Your mind doesn't come in heaven or hell, does it? From other point of view, from cyber point of view again yeah, you are right... one day everything dies.

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    If you want a fried fish to fly and enter your mouth, you must keep waiting till the unending time ends. Dead fish doesn't fly. If you want to eat it, your own hands must carry it.

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    I had an overwhelming sense of the lonliness of this city - a trillion souls in their bedrooms, high in the cliffs of windows. I thought of what was underneath it all - I thought of the electricty cables, steam, water, fire, subway trains and lava in the city's guts, the subterranean rumbling of trains and earthquakes. I thought of the dead souls from the war, concreted over.

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    I heard them tearing at it. It was the sound of mortality.

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    "I'll carry him. We can't leave drag marks or anything, and we'll need to bury him right away, so no dogs find him." "Bury who?" said a voice beside me. I jumped so high, my heart rammed into my throat. "Chloe?" Derek said again. "It's L-Liam. His ghost." Liam stopped. "Ghost?" He looked at me, then at his body, on the ground. He swore.

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    I saw you dead.

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    I just want silence... nothing less... nothing more.

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    I knew then I was going to die in the street without ever seeing Holly again. All because I tried to help an old woman, proving for all eternity that no good deed goes unpunished.

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    I have a swizzle stick shaped like a little monkey,” announced Rose. “Let’s help the dead man with his problem.

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    I know now, what is the worst thing about broken heart. I am not dead.

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    I looked; and the unseen figure, which still grasped me by the wrist, bad caused to be thrown open the graves of all mankind; and from each issued the faint phosphoric radiance of decay; so that I could see the innermost recesses, and there view the shrouded bodies in their dead and solemn slumber with the worm. But alas! the real sleepers were fewer, by many millions, than those who slumbered not at all; and there was a feebly struggling; and there was a general and sad unrest; and from out of the depths of the countless pits there came a melancholy rustling from the garments of the buried.

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    I may not be perfect for you or the world but guess what I'm not perfect for myself either. I'm dead to you and the world just as I'm dead to myself.-p.b

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    I'm dead, but I can't stop living.

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    I'm chasing a decade old ghost. Searching beneath the rafters of a cobweb-filled haven lined with old memories which my brain cannot accept are dead. The light of nostalgia is burning bright inside my heart. Ignoring the emptiness around me, and hoping for a resurrection of love.

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    I’m just happy to have experienced life; to have had a beautiful son and to have loved.

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    I’m not a bad person.

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    I’m nothing but a thought in the mind of God, I’m Satan’s slave; I open my eyes and flee, I’m mankind, I worship, and I kill, All in the name of Love, hate I’m the slaughtered lamb, I’m luzbel I’m the one paying for your sins, I’m your son; I am your mom and dad, I’m the one, who worships God, I’m a killer and a saint, I’m just a thought in the mind of God. I laugh and I suffer, I get killed, and I kill others, I’m nothing but a thought in the mind of God I’m compassion and rage, I love, I cheat, and I lie, I tell the truth, I’m dead, I’m alive, I’m in hell, the place people called paradise, I am just a thought in the mind of God

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    I must be alive," Gawain said hoarsely. "Dead doesn't hurt this much.

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    I have outlived a few of the kids that I grew up with in Knowsley Village, Liverpool, UK. Two dropped dead at eighteen years of age from heart attacks! They lived across the road from each other and played together. I wonder if it was some exposure that was common to them? Curiously, an entire family of three ladies all got breast cancer just round the corner from them, it killed my friend! A little further up the road another friend dropped dead of brain cancer in her thirties. Always seemed like far too much premature death in such a small area.

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    I have realised I have never seen a dead body or a real female nipple. This is what comes of living in a cul-de-sac.

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    I’m sorry, but your friend is gone. Now, you need to get your shit together or we all gonna be gone, too.

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    In a materialistic society, the dead body of a rich man’s dog is regarded as a corpse; that of a poor man, a carcass.

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    I needed nothing and was needed nowhere. I almost doubted I was alive.

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    I never imagined being undead would be so much work,” Jeff lamented. “Being a ‘vampire’ takes no work at all,” Timothy emphasized vampire. “It’s surviving that takes all the work.

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    -ingen Penge mere og kan ikke arbejde, blaut, Far, udsuget, Fan danse mig.

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    Incluso cuando morimos, solía decir Abuelita, seguimos siendo una parte de la gente que nos lleva consigo. Drew llevaba a Valerie. Era la única forma en que podía tenerla.

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    Not a day has gone by, he said. Poor Jos. Days had gone by for me. It wasn't that I had forgotten about him, I always knew that he was out there. It just stopped seeming to matter. I was already dead. I had already moved on into this afterlife. I was someplace that he could never follow, nor would I want him to. Poor Jos. All this time, and he has been the one trapped.

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    In short, you had that particular ability which I never had: the ability to be alive.

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    Instead, I opened my eyes to find the thing in front of my face, wafting dead horse breath across my chin and up my nose, its mouth like a gaping maw; its eyes, two giant wormholes, twisting and bending with some apparitional substance that could have been space and time if I’d known anything about physics.

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    In 1912, a man named Franz Reichelt jumped off the Eiffel Tower wearing a parachute suit he designed himself. He jumped to test his invention--he expected to fly--but instead he fell straight down, hitting the ground like a meteor and leaving a 5.9-inch-deep crater from the impact. Did he mean to kill himself? Doubtful. I think he was just cocky, and also stupid.

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    In the end, this volume should be read a s a collection of love stories, Above all, they are tales of love, not the love with which so many stories end – the love of fidelity, kindness and fertility – but the other side of love, its cruelty, sterility and duplicity. In a way, the decadents did accept Nordau's idea of the artist as monster. But in nature, the glory and panacea of romanticism, they found nothing. Theirs is an aesthetic that disavows the natural and with it the body. The truly beautiful body is dead, because it is empty. Decadent work is always morbid, but its attraction to death is through art. What they refused was the condemnation of that monster. And yet despite the decadent celebration of artifice, these stories record art's failure in the struggle against natural horror. Nature fights back and wins, and decadent writing remains a remarkable account of that failure.

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    In the long run we are all dead. Economists set themselves too easy, too useless a task if in tempestuous seasons they can only tell us that when the storm is long past the ocean is flat again.

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    In the hierarchy of age the baby has the highest rank, then the child, then the adolescent, and only then the adult. As for the old, they are virtually at ground level, at the very bottom of this pyramid of values. And the dead? They are under the ground. Even lower than the old The old are still accorded human rights. The dead, however, lose all rights from the very first second of death. No law protects them any longer from slander, their privacy has ceased to be private; not even the letters written to them by their loved ones, not even the family album left to them by their mothers, nothing, nothing belongs to them any longer.

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    In this world, people always find a way of doing what they want

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    I often think about this, that is, I imagine to myself that here is Vera, dead, totally motionless, lying on the table, in a coffin... and I too, of course can no longer live. But for some reason this gives me pleasure, a terrible amount of pleasure to imagine so the one I love: earlier I imagined grandmother and then my fiance in this manner, even my favorite animals, Sparky our cat with the fiery bursts of red on his gray-black fur. ("Thirty-Three Abominations")

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    I owe more to the dead, with whom I will spend a much longer time, than I will ever owe to the living.

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    Isabelle! he called again. Let down your raven hair. Oh, my God, Clary muttered. There was something in that blood Raphael gave you, wasn't there? I'm going to kill him. He's already dead, Simon observed. He's undead. Obviously he can still die, you know, again. I'll re-kill him.

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    I see ghosts like you see a normal person. Looking regular, tangible as ever and even more alive than most of the people you’ll see walking around the streets.

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    I should have asked, I guess,” he says. “I shouldn’t have assumed.” “What?” He rotates around on his butt to face me. Me on the sofa, him on the floor, looking up. “That I was going with you.” “What? We weren’t even talking about that! And why would you want to go with me, Evan? Since you think he’s dead?” “I just don’t want you to be dead, Cassie.

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    I sit alone in a dead world. The wind blows hot and dry, and the dust gathers like particles of memory waiting to be swept away. I pray for forgetfulness, yet my memory remains strong, as does the outstretched arm of the oppressive air. It seems as if the wind has been there since the beginning of the nightmare. Sometimes loud and harsh, a thousand sharp needles scratching at my reddened skin. Sometimes a whisper, a curious sigh in the black of night, of words more frightening than pain. I know now the wind has been speaking to me. Only I couldn't understand because I was too scared. I am scared now as I write these words. Still, there is nothing else to do.

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    Is it true, then, Mayor?" Grandmother Miss Lacy Thornton warbled from the end of the counter. "Is Jesse Tatum officially dead?" "Dead is such an unflattering term," he said, sliding onto his stool. "I prefer to think of Jesse as... passe." The Azalea Women gasped. "What's passe mean?" Tinks Williams asked the Colonel, his voice low. "Dead," the Colonel said, refilling Tink's iced tea.

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    Intellectual death is endemic in areas where people are unprepared to obtain new information for development. Learning is a way of staying alive.

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    I spend more time with the living, than the dead now.

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    It goes without saying that even those of us who are going to hell will get eternal life—if that territory really exists outside religious books and the minds of believers, that is. Having said that, given the choice, instead of being grilled until hell freezes over, the average sane human being would, needless to say, rather spend forever idling in an extremely fertile garden, next to a lamb or a chicken or a parrot, which they do not secretly want to eat, and a lion or a tiger or a crocodile, which does not secretly want to eat them.