The death of a person is not some number. Everyone’s lives must have meaning. What’s written here is something you could never feel from the words ‘four dead.’ It’s their breath.
A man falling off a cliff to certain death will stretch out a hand even to his worst enemy.
My father chose my name , and my last name was chosen by my ancestors . That’s enough, I myself choose my way
Dying is overrated. Human sentimentality has twisted it into the ultimate act of love. Biggest load of bullshit in the world. Dying for someone isn’t the hard thing. The man that dies escapes. Plain and simple. Game over. End of pain…Try living for someone. Through it all-good, bad, thick, thin, joy, suffering. That’s the hard thing.
The flesh surrenders itself. Eternity takes back its own. Our bodies stirred these waters briefly, danced with a certain intoxication before the love of life and self, dealt with a few strange ideas, then submitted to the instruments of Time. What can we say of this? I occurred. I am not…yet, I occurred.
In the beginning, I was frightened to death of going solo. Especially when doing live shows, I was so used to my brothers being next to me. It felt like the crowd was just looking at me, waiting for me to either mess up or prove myself.
They say that if you really want to kill yourself, no one can stop you. There are too many ways to do it. You can jump off a bridge or a building. You can hang yourself. You can crash a car or slit your wrists or swim out really far into the ocean until you drown. Sometimes I wonder why I’m not dead, if I really wanted to kill myself.
Forget it. Never explain; never apologize. You can either write posthumously or you can’t.
Remember where you came from, where you’re going, and why you created the mess you got yourself into in the first place. You’re going to die a horrible death, remember. It’s all good training, and you’ll enjoy it more if you keep the facts in mind. Take your dying with some seriousness, however. Laughing on the way to your execution is not generally understood by less-advanced life-forms, and they’ll call you crazy.
And now let us love and take that which is given us, and be happy; for in the grave there is no love and no warmth, nor any touching of the lips. Nothing perchance, or perchance but bitter memories of what might have been.
And that’s when I realize that, at the end, we’d all wish for the same thing. Just a little more time.
To lose someone you love is the very worst thing in the world. It creates an invisible hole that you feel you are falling down and will never end. People you love make the world real and solid and when they suddenly go away forever, nothing feels solid any more.
I died for beauty, but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was lain In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed? “For beauty,” I replied. “And I for truth,—the two are one; We brethren are,” he said. And so, as kinsmen met a night, We talked between the rooms, Until the moss had reached our lips, And covered up our names.
Sadness and boredom were more bearable than the effort of living a normal life. Perhaps the idea of death began to hover over her during that period, as a kind of higher order of lassitude in which she would not have to move the blood in her veins or the air in her lungs; her repose would be absolute- not to think, not to feel, not to be.
But some part of him realized, even as he fought to break free from Lupin, that Sirius had never kept him waiting before. . . . Sirius had risked everything, always, to see Harry, to help him. . . . If Sirius was not reappearing out of that archway when Harry was yelling for him as though his life depended on it, the only possible explanation was that he could not come back. . . . That he really was . . .
Life would go out in a ‘fraction of a second’ (that was the phrase), but all night he had been realizing that time depends on clocks and the passage of light. There were no clocks and the light wouldn’t change. Nobody really knew how long a second of pain could be. It might last a whole purgatory–or for ever.
For in grief nothing stays put. One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?How often — will it be for always? — how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, I never realized my loss till this moment? The same leg is cut off time after time.
When I wake up I go through an abbreviated process of mourning all over again. Plainly, there’s something within me that’s ready to believe in life after death. And it’s not the least bit interested in whether there’s any sober evidence for it.
I’m fed up to the ears with old men dreaming up wars for young men to die in.
I think about dying, but i don’t want to die. Not even close. In fact, my problem is the complete opposite. I want to live, I want to escape. I feel trapped and bored and claustrophobic. There’s so much to see and so much to do but I somehow still find myself doing nothing at all. I’m still here, in this metaphorical bubble of existence and I can’t quite figure out what the hell I’m doing or how to get out of it.
I spend a lot of time with Buddhists. I’m not a Buddhist, but their relationship with death interests me.
Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, which is the only fact we have.
I melted into the dream as if I had always been there. I knew where I had come from; I knew where I was going.
It is clear that men accept an immediate pain rather than an immediate pleasure, but only because they expect a greater pleasure in the future. Often the pleasure is illusory, but their error in calculation is no refutation of the rule. You are puzzled because you cannot get over the idea that pleasures are only of the sense; but, child, a man who dies for his country dies because he likes it as surely as a man eats pickled cabbage because he likes it.
Every poem should remind the reader that they are going to die.
May, I love you with everything I am. For so long, I just wanted to be like you. But I had to figure out that I am someone too, and now I can carry you, your heart with mine, everywhere I go.
I meant, said Ipslore bitterly, what is there in this world that truly makes living worthwhile?Death thought about it.CATS, he said eventually. CATS ARE NICE.
I asked him if it were a mirage, and he said yes. I said it was a dream, and he agreed, But said it was the desert’s dream not his. And he told me that in a year or so, when he had aged enough for any man, then he would walk into the wind, until he saw the tents. This time, he said, he would go on with them.
Would you like me to [kill you] now? asked Snape, his voice heavy with irony. Or would you like a few moments to compose an epitaph?
There is no man so blessed that some who stand by his deathbed won’t hail the occasion with delight.
Once very near the end I said, ‘If you can — if it is allowed — come to me when I too am on my death bed.’ ‘Allowed!’ she said. ‘Heaven would have a job to hold me; and as for Hell, I’d break it into bits.
Everybody has an angel hiding inside. When you die, your angel comes out. You can die, but not your angel. Your angel never dies.
You are young, and rich, and have friends, and at such an age I know it is hard to die!
I could write my name across the sky, and it would be in invisible ink.
I held her close for only a short time, but after she was gone, I’d see her smile on the face of a perfect stranger and I knew she would be there with me all the rest of my days.
Tears are sometimes an inappropriate response to death. When a life has been lived completely honestly, completely successfully, or just completely, the correct response to death’s perfect punctuation mark is a smile.
Closure is just as delusive-it is the false hope that we can deaden our living grief.
I can’t die yet, doctor. Not yet. I have things to do. Afterwords I’ll have a whole lifetime in which to die.
Some of us hover when we weep for the other who wasdying since the day they were born.
A tomb now suffices him for whom the world was not enough.[Alexander’s tombstone epitaph]
The whole image is that eternal suffering awaits anyone who questions God’s infinite love. That’s the message we’re brought up with, isn’t it? Believe or die! Thank you, forgiving Lord, for all those options.
You attend the funeral, you bid the dead farewell. You grieve. Then you continue with your life. And at times the fact of her absence will hit you like a blow to the chest, and you will weep. But this will happen less and less as time goes on. She is dead. You are alive. So live.
We have only a little time to please the living. But all eternity to love the dead.
In a world where the dead have returned to life, the word trouble’ loses much of its meaning.
The poetry you could write about Rufus helping me out of my grave isn’t lost on me.
…and there you have it, another body on the floor surrounded by things that don’t mean much to anyone except to the one who can’t take any of them along.
Charles de Foucauld, the found of the Little Brothers of Jesus, wrote a single sentence that’s ahad a profound impact on my life. He said, The one thing we owe absolutely to God is never to be afraid of anything. Never to be afraid of anything, even death, which, after all, is but that final breakthrough into the open, waiting, outstretched arms of Abba.
I think the idea that death is not the end, that your dog’s just gone to live on the farm, is limiting. Thoughts like that prevent you from making the most of the time that you have.
Everyone grieves in different ways. For some, it could take longer or shorter. I do know it never disappears. An ember still smolders inside me. Most days, I don’t notice it, but, out of the blue, it’ll flare to life.
A pig resembles a saint in that he is more honored after death than during his lifetime.
This is a night for song and sin and drink, for come the morrow, the virtuous and the vile burn together.
If she could have died…if she could have disappeared forever…but the solid surface of things refused to dissolve around her, and her body, her hateful hermaphrodite’s body, continued in its stubborn, lumpen way, to live…
While he was waiting, leaning on the counter at a coffee place, he remembered the dream he’d had the night before about Antonio Jones, who had been dead for several years now. As before, he asked himself what Jones could have died of, and the one answer that occurred to him was old age. One day, walking down some street in Brooklyn, Antonio Jones had felt tired, sat down on the sidewalk, and a second later stopped existing.
It was from an old friend who thought he was dying. Anyway, he said, ‘Life and death issues don’t come along that often, thank God, so don’t treat everything like it’s life or death. Go easier.’
Nothing, they say is more certain than death, and nothing more uncertain than the time of dying
His eyes were more sunken than I remembered them, and his cheekbones more pronounced. This gave him a harsher, older look – until he smiled, of course, and the sagging cheeks gathered up like curtains.
Death’s got an Invisibility Cloak? Harry interrupted again.So he can sneak up on people, said Ron. Sometimes he gets bored of running at them, flapping his arms and shrieking…
Life can’t defeat a writer who is in love with writing, for life itself is a writer’s lover until death.