Death Quotes - Page 109

I have almost completed a long novel, but it is unpublishable until my death and England's.

They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.

Lady Ligeia," he began again, "is a woman in the literature who returns from the dead, taking over another woman's body to be with her true love.""Oh, yes. Lovely" Isobel blanched. "I guess the other chick didn't mind at all?

He lived like a devil and died like a saint. Life is paradoxical, but I believe that I could also be the person I am today, if life would have cut me with happiness, instead of pain. I would be the same. I didn’t need the pain to grow, or be who I really am inside of me. Because life, life cuts you like a precious stone and shows the brilliance of your essence…but maybe we can learn also with joy and happiness, and turn into the same persons, just happier. We don’t need pain to learn

I’ve seen a lot of stuff… maybe I’ve seen too much. I see most humans in a bad light because I’ve seen what they can do, how evil they can be… I’ve seen the Holocaust and I’ve seen Jonestown, I’ve seen the Vietnam War and I’ve seen Hiroshima… I’ve seen the Chernobyl disaster… I’ve seen the World Trade Center attack… I’ve been alive too long, over a hundred years is a long time to be alive,” Alecto sighed, staring at the cigarette he was holding.

In all our lives, however, there are many days when we die a little, when we are wounded by loss or failure, or by fear, or by seeing the suffering of others for whom we are able to offer only pity, for whom we are powerless to offer aid, we are beyond mercy.

Believe me, when you die, it's everybody else's but your problem

for some reason, dying men always ask the question they know the answer to. perhaps it's so they can die being right.

I saw the world from the stars' point of view, and it looked unbearably lonely.

An extreme fearfulness moves through all your body, and your mind is troubled more.

Oh cold, cold, rigid, dreadful Death, set up thine altar here, and dress it with such terrors as thou hast at thy command: for this is thy dominion! But of the loved, revered, and honoured head, thou canst not turn one hair to thy dread purposes, or make one feature odious. It is not that the hand is heavy and will fall down when released; it is not that the heart and pulse are still; but that the hand was open, generous, and true; the heart brave, warm, and tender; and the pulse a man's. Strike, Shadow, strike! And see his good deeds springing from the wound, to sow the world with life immortal.

Is this muteness a real physical handicap? One of the many symptoms of being Dead?Or do we just have nothing left to say?

As Ginny and Hermione moved closer to the rest of the family, Harry had a clear view of the bodies lying next to Fred: Remus and Tonks, pale and still and peaceful-looking, apparently asleep beneath the dark, enchanted ceiling.

I can’t pray or weigh my words right; doomsday is here my friend, but you’re immune. We sufferfor you. I’m weaving crowns of sonnets, dreads;a souvenir so you’ll never forget your friends.

We do not recognize that we are addicted to some negative psychological habit, some terribly self-destructive patterns of thinking...

Some people think destiny is something you cannot escape, such as death or a curdled cheesecake, both of which always turn up sooner or later.

In Spain the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.

We don't plan funerals till the body is dead.

It doesn’t upset me to think about dying. What upsets me is the idea of John being alone after his spell passes. The idea of one of us without the other. (p.127)

Sometimes the dying live more fiercely and wisely than the rest of us. (146)

Yes, you are still grieving for the fact that Olly is not loving you as you love him. But death is no solution. Certainly not this horrible, messy death. Could you at least not consider possible option that is not leaving you looking diabolical at funeral?"Oh, for the love of God.

Yet for quixotic reasons--namely, that I enjoyed writing obits--I had decided to scale back on articles about city life in order to write exclusively about the city's dead. For even less money. It was a strange and inexplicable career move.

When you reach the stars, boy, yes, and live there forever, all the fears will go, and Death himself will die.

You can't tell that the coffin holds the body of a boy.He wasn't even sixteen but his coffin's the same size as a man's would be.It's not just that he was young, but because it was so sudden. No one should die the way he did; that's what the faces here say.I think about him, in there, with all that space, and I want to stop them. I want to open the box and climb in with him. To wrap him up in a duvet. I can't bear the thought of him being cold.And all the time the same question flails around my head, like a hawkmoth round a light-bulb: Is it possible to keep loving somebody when they kill someone you love?

Evil and suffering are real . . . They aren’t an illusion, nor are they simply an absence of good. We are fallen creatures living in a fallen world that has been twisted and corrupted by sin, and we all share in its brokenness. Most of all, we share in its tragic legacy of disease and death.

It’s natural to die. The fact that we make such a big hullabaloo over it is all because we don’t see ourselves as part of nature. We think because we’re human we’re something above nature.

At the time, I remained relatively calm before that spectacle of horrors, which is perhaps the most telling indication of just how desensitized I had become. The more I witnessed such atrocities and rubbed shoulders with death, the more I desired to stay alive, no matter the cost.

The power of faith is the fear of the unknown. The power of love is the fear of dying alone.

Eternity, sacred time.

The day I became a writerit wasn't the day a whore paid me in sexin exchange for one of my bookswhich happened often and more and moreas time went onit wasn't the first time someone actually paid for one of my bookswhich happens less and less as time goes onIt was the day I realizedthat everything is created by manGod, Satan, Judas, phobias, excrement, even deatheven womeneverything is created by manSo I said to myselfshit, let me make something let me tape together some words and sentencesand proseand predicatesand the residual shit that sticks to my ass after I wipeand compose a new kind of thingBut then I realized that others had discovered thisfor themselves as wellAnd suddenly the world became a jungleWhere everyone eats each other aliveAnd shits out the same shit

Murderers — serving life sentences — were caring for their dying fellow inmates. Washing their bed-sore covered bodies, changing their diapers, holding their hands while they took their last breath. It was the other side of death, not the one at the end of a sudden muzzle flash, but the slow and wrenching kind, leaving plenty of time for hard reflection.

...Matt. I didn't think they'd kill you... I'm so sorry...

To all the motherless daughters out there; may your heartache serve you in the best of ways. May your grief give you a better understanding of yourself, may your sentiment allow you to express and create, and may your love expand beyond what you ever thought possible.

For how imperiously, how coolly, in disregard of all one’s feelings, does the hard, cold, uninteresting course of daily realities move on! Still we must eat, and drink, and sleep, and wake again, - still bargain, buy, sell, ask and answer questions, - pursue, in short, a thousand shadows, though all interest in them be over; the cold, mechanical habit of living remaining, after all vital interest in it has fled.

Justice is paramount. The new judgement is the justice of the hidden time.

O Lord that bear rule, who may know these things, but he that had not his dwelling with men?

I took a deep breath of the syrupy sweetness of summer, suffused with bees and birds, and I thought to myself how beautiful this world can be. How lucky we are to be here, to be part of it, for however long we have.

No one goes on, but what we leave behind keeps us alive for someone else.

The bustle in a houseThe morning after deathIs solemnest of industriesEnacted upon earth,--The sweeping up the heart,And putting love awayWe shall not want to use againUntil eternity

As a kid I heard the word malignancy as "Malig-Nancy" like an evil woman's name, no matter how many times Kiwi and the Chief and Dr. Gautman himself corrected me. Our mother had mistaken her first symptoms for a pregnancy, and so I still pictured the Malig-Nancy as a baby, a tiny, eyeless fist of a sister, killing her.

We are born and then we die. And in between lies only this strange darkness that we can’t break.

In this century history stopped paying attention to the old psychological orientation of reality. I mean, these days, character isn't destiny any more. Economy is destiny. Ideology is destiny. Bombs are destiny. What does a famine, a gas chamber, a grenade care how you lived your life? Crisis comes, death comes, and your pathetic individual self doesn't have a thing to do with it, only to suffer the effects.

Together we would make reputation, we would have men in halls across Britain telling the story of our exploit. Or of our deaths. They were friends, they were oath-men, they were young, they were warriors, and with such men it might be possible to storm the gates of Asgard itself.

When he died, all things soft and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.

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.

And now I am sitting in the graveyard, staring at two headstones, and feeling good and bad at the same time. The way we do when our own lives continue to unfold, but the lives that gave us life and others that gave our lives meaning have ended.

When the dead departed, they took away any falsehoods that they might have allowed us to believe while alive; we who are left behind have to embark on a different life, since the dead are no longer here to help us deceive ourselves.

They say such nice things about people at their funerals that it makes me sad to realize I'm going to miss mine by just a few days.

Once people knew about the cancer, I wouldn't be able to stop them from talking about Val every time they saw me. And then I would stop being me, because my time was something I could only buy at home.

He took deep breaths. He wanted to sleep. At least in sleeping, he could find a kind of peace. At least in sleeping, he could dream about his dead friends and maybe, until the sun came up, feel like he wasn't all alone.

We don't get to choose the things that happen to us in life. What we can choose is how to react to them, how we deal with them, and how we move on.

When a husband loses his wife, they call him a widower. When a wife loses her husband, they call her a widow. And when somebody’s parents die, they call them an orphan. But there is no name for a parent, a grieving mother, or a devastated father who have lost their child. Because the pain behind the loss is so immeasurable and unbearable, that it cannot be described in a single word. It just cannot be described.

The wheel of life: one generation rises like summer wheat, then withers and falls to seed. The wheel turns - birth, youth, adulthood, parenthood, senescence, death - driven by genetic machinery set in motion so many eons ago. For all its subtleties and infinite beauty, life has but one purpose: to keep the wheel turning.

They said she killed herself.Everyone was saying It. What started out as a rumor, quietly whispered among small gatherings of polite people, quickly grew into something that was openly discussed in a large gatherings of impolite people. I was so sick of hearing them talk about It. They questioned me. Over and over again, trying to find out If i knew what happened. But my answers didn't change. Yet It never failed-someone else would ask, as if one day my reply would suddenly be different. I didn't know, but i should have...and I've been haunted ever since.

Life is like a B-movie. You don't want to leave in the middle of it but you don't want to see it again.

I do not know, not do I care to rememberThe time in which I knew distinctly that you were goneYou fade in and out of memoryUpon which I can not feign to touchOr feelHow cruel to leave me With paper but no penWhat a way to leave meYou give me cups, but not water to fill themSo they sit thereEmpty Your reflectionBouncing to and froFrom every surface

For while directly we say that it [the length of human life] is ages long, we are reminded that it is briefer than the fall of a rose leaf to the ground.

Oblige me by taking away that knife. I can't look at the point of it. It reminds me of Roman history.

If one million of you give assent to the one thousand who participate in the murder of a child, then one million of you are a million times guilty.

In life, more than in anything else, it isn’t easy to end up alive.