In the end we are all sacked and it’s always awful. It is as inevitable as death following life. If you are elevated there comes a day when you are demoted. Even Prime Ministers.
It doth not hurt, whispered a faint voice, She will take you life and all you are and all you care’st for, and she will leave you with nothing but mist and fog. She’ll take your joy. And one day you’ll wake and your heart and soul will have gone. A husk you’ll be, a wisp you’ll be, and a thing no more than a dream on waking, or a memory of something forgotten.
The line between life and death is narrow and dark, and a bereaved twin lives closer to it than most.
I was waiting for the longest time, she said. I thought you forgot.It is hard to forget, I said, when there is such an empty space when you are gone.
Stay, he said abruptly. Stay, feed me. Read to me, if you like. Do not talk to me of death. Do not offer me your fear. I have fear of my own to drive me, and if my own fear is not strong enough to keep me from my duty, yours will only grieve me, girl. It will give me guilt and no rest, but it won’t preserve my life.
Writing is one method of dealing with being human or wanting to suicide cause in order to write you kill yourself at the same time while remaining alive.
Either we live by accident and die by accident, or we live by plan and die by plan.
Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma – which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of other’s opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.
I’ve seen and swam and climbed and lived and driven and filmed. Should it all end tomorrow, I can definitely say there would be no regrets. I am very lucky, and I know it. I really have lived 5,000 times over.
The best way to be appreciative for your life is to live it; don’t die for any other reason but love. Dreams are what guide us, art is what defines us, math is makes it all possible, and love is what lights our way.
Some men die for lack of love…some die because of it. Think about it. – Daemon
Who but the mad would choose to keep on living? In the end, aren’t we all just a little crazy?
Be gentle,always delicatewith every soulyou meet,for every single morningyou wake up,there is someoneWishing,silentlyand secretly,that theyhad not.
Death was too definite an object to be wished for or avoided.
Michael could never remember his father ever having uttered a word about death, as if the Don respected death too much to philosophize about it.
Men must endureTheir going hence, even as their coming hither.Ripeness is all.
People leave strange little memories of themselves behind when they die.
Tell me not in mournful numbers,Life is but an empty dream!For the soul is dead that slumbers,And things are not what they seem.
A man who wants to die feels angry and full of life and desperate and bored and exhausted, all at the same time; he wants to fight everyone, and he wants to curl up in a ball and hide in a cupboard somewhere. He wants to say sorry to everyone, and he wants everyone to know just how badly they’ve all let him down.
Attending a funeral would leave the average person insane, if they truly believed that sooner or later they are also going to die.
Why do we want to kill all the broken people? What is wrong with us, that we think a thing like that can be right?
The many sorrows of our recent history suggest that we humans have a learning disability.
In my dream I know I am falling. But there is no up or down, no walls or sides or ceilings, just the sensation of cold and darkness everywhere. I am so scared I could scream. But when I open my mouth, nothing happens. And I wonder if you fall forever and never touch down, is it really still falling? I think I will fall forever.
I’ve crossed some kind of invisible line. I feel as if I’ve come to a place I never thought I’d have to come to. And I don’t know how I got here. It’s a strange place. It’s a place where a little harmless dreaming and then some sleepy, early-morning talk has led me into considerations of death and annihilation.
When the Aggregates arise, decay and die, O bhikkhu, every moment you are born, decay, and die.
Every man’s life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another.
Sometimes I hear the world discussed as the realm of men. This is not my experience. I have watched men fall to the ground like leaves. They were swept up as memories, and burned. History owns them. These men were petrified in both senses of the word: paralyzed and turned to stone. Their refusal to express feeling killed them. Anachronistic men. Those poor, poor boys.
It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know.
Each child’s story is worthy of telling. There shouldn’t be a sliding scale of death. The weight of it is crushing.
Land and sea, weakness and decline are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever.
Knackered inmates are easier to control than pumped-up ones. And dead inmates are even easier to control, if you follow me.
Your coffin reached the monstrous hole. And a part of me went down into the muddy earth with you and lay down next to you and died with you.
Millions of deaths would not have happened if it weren’t for the consumption of alcohol. The same can be said about millions of births.
The scribbled signature black, onto the blinding global white, onto the thick soupy red.
Adam is crying and somewhere inside of me I am crying, too, because I’m feeling things at last. I’m feeling not just the physical pain, but all that I have lost, and it is profound and catastrophic and will leave a crater in me that nothing will ever fill.
Sometimes I think gravity may be death in disguise. Other times I think gravity is love, which is why love’s only demand is that we fall.
But you’re dead,’ said Harry.’Oh, yes,’ said Dumbledore matter-of-factly.’Then… am I dead too?”Ah,’ said Dumbledore, smiling still more broadly. ‘That is the question, isn’t it? On the whole, dear boy, I think not.
O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, / That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!
This shit about being fearless before death ain’t got no quality. How could you say you were fearless about leaving the party, even in stir—even franks and rice taste good when you’re hungry, even an iron bar feels good to touch, it feels good to sleep. It’s like a party even in maximum security and who wants to walk out of a party into something that nobody knows anything at all about?
Prate not to me of suicide, Faint heart in battle, not for pride I say Endure, but that such end denied Makes welcomer yet the death that’s to be died.
Would you guys choose to walk away from possibly the most incredible encounter of your lifetime just because you had to let it go sooner then you wanted? Just because you knew that it would never be?
Love is not love that wounded bleeds And bleeding sullies slow. Come death within my hands and I Unto my love will go.
To my mind the defining characteristic of our era is spin, everything tailored to vanishing point by market research, brands and bands manufactured to precise specifications; we are so used to things transmuting into whatever we would like them to be that it comes as a profound outrage to encounter death, stubbornly unspinnable, only and immutably itself.
You fear them because you fear death, and rightly: for death is terrible and must be feared,’ the mage said…’And life is also a terrible thing,’ Ged said, ‘and must be feared and praised.
He gave her a bright fake smile; so much of life was a putting off of unhappiness for another time. Nothing was ever lost by delay. He had a dim idea that perhaps if one delayed long enough, things were taken out of one’s hands altogether by death.
For the first time in my life I tasted death, and death tasted bitter, for death is birth, is fear and dread of some terrible renewal.
Death is impatient and thoughtless. It barges into your room when you are right in the middle of something, and it doesn’t bother to wipe its boots.
No matter how much he talked, she never answered him, but he knew she was still there. He knew it was like the soldiers he had read about. They would have an arm or a leg blown off, and for days, even weeks after it happened, they could still feel the arm itching, the leg itching, the mother calling.
Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much.Mercutio: No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door; but ’tis enough, ’twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.
Birth is painful and delightful. Death is painful and delightful. Everything that ends is also the beginning of something else. Pain is not a punishment; pleasure is not a reward.
Good Madonna, why mournest thou?Good Fool, for my brother’s death.I think his soul is in hell, Madonna.I know his soul is in heaven, Fool. The more fool, Madonna, to mourn for your brother’s soul being in heaven.
Working with the dying is like being a midwife for this great rite of passage of death. Just as a midwife helps a being take their first breath, you help a being take their last breath.
I still loved Granny. It flowed out of my chest. With Granny gone, where would my love go?
He wanted to bury her in Velaris. Somewhere full of light and warmth, full of kind people. Far away from these mountains.
It’s a consoling notion that death is a very tiny hole, and you need to make yourself very small to get through it. One obviously needs to lighten off, and a rucksack full of bricks or a mantelpiece full of trophies will certainly have to be abandoned – the sooner the better, I say.
You don’t know what cold is until you’ve experienced the cold you feel when the blood is draining out of your body.
I must admit that if there was ever going to be a woman to take my mind and heart off of Annette, it would have been Aideen.
I find by my calculations, which are according to revealed inspiration, that the sword of death is now approaching us, in the shape of pestilence, war more horrible than has been known in three lifetimes, and famine.
… just because [butterflies’] lives were short didn’t mean they were tragic… See, they have a beautiful life.
No truth can cure the sorrow we feel from losing a loved one. No truth, no sincerity, no strength, no kindness can cure that sorrow. All we can do is see it through to the end and learn something from it, but what we learn will be no help in facing the next sorrow that comes to us without warning.