Death is only the end if you assume the story is about you.
The person whom you really, really love may not be here anymore. And you might be feeling lonely, but, there are people in this world who really, really love you, so shouldn’t that equal it all out? So, please don’t ever think that you’re alone. I’ll be watching over you. I’ll always be watching over you. I promise to always watch over you. You’re not alone.
Open questions like love, life, death, struggle and sex are our experiences, our opinions are not answers but they still remain mysterious unanswered questions. Let it be Open.
Was there any meaning to life or to war, that two men should sit together and jump within seconds of each other and yet never meet on the ground below?
The only position that leaves me with no cognitive dissonance is atheism. It is not a creed. Death is certain, replacing both the siren-song of Paradise and the dread of Hell. Life on this earth, with all its mystery and beauty and pain, is then to be lived far more intensely: we stumble and get up, we are sad, confident, insecure, feel loneliness and joy and love. There is nothing more; but I want nothing more.
Feel completely unable to do anything. Try to picture your life in five years. It really seems like you will be dead.
It was not right, thought Han Fei-tzu, for his wife to die before him: her ancestor-of-the-heart had outlived her husband. Besides, wives should live longer than husbands. Women were more complete inside themselves. They were also better at living in their children. They were never as solitary as a man alone.
Dying was and easy thing to accomplish, effortless in its agony. It was living that was hard, requiring endless toil and labor, and for all one’s efforts, it could be stolen in an instant.
Everything I do has the tinge of the finite, of my own demise. At some point you either accept death or you just keep pushing it back as you get older and older. I’ve accepted it.
The first step to the knowledge of the wonder and mystery of life is the recognition of the monstrous nature of the earthly human realm as well as its glory, the realization that this is just how it is and that it cannot and will not be changed. Those who think they know how the universe could have been had they created it, without pain, without sorrow, without time, without death, are unfit for illumination.
No matter the self-conceited importance of our labors we are all compost for worlds we cannot yet imagine.
Rosencrantz: We might as well be dead. Do you think death could possibly be a boat?Guildenstern: No, no, no… Death is…not. Death isn’t. You take my meaning. Death is the ultimate negative. Not-being. You can’t not-be on a boat.Rosencrantz: I’ve frequently not been on boats.Guildenstern: No, no, no–what you’ve been is not on boats.
Focusing his mind, he searches for any sign of death in the forest. But nothing. Prana diminishes with death. He won’t know if the dead bird is far away.
…do you actually think that how long a person grieves is a measure of how much they loved someone?
But all that is warm will go cold. My ears will fall off and my eyes will melt. My mouth will be clamped shut. My lips will turn to glue….No taste or smell or touch or sound.Nothing to look at. Total emptiness for ever.
Even her name seemed empty, as though it had detached itself from her and was floating untethered in his mind. How am I supposed to live without you? It was not a matter of the body; his body would carry on as usual. The problem was located in the word how: he would live, but without Elspeth the flavour, the manner, the method of living were lost to him. He would have to relearn solitude.
I’ve developed into quite a swan. I’m one of those people that will probably look better and better as I get older – until I drop dead of beauty.
I can just close my eyes and let myself fall into oblivion. Maybe I’ll hit the exact same rocks and my blood will mingle with his and maybe there’s some kind of life after death and he’s waiting for me there with his hand outstretched just like mine.But…I don’t want to die.I try to twist my body backwards and pain shoots up my neck.It’s too late.I chose life too late.
I have almost completed a long novel, but it is unpublishable until my death and England’s.
Life is fragile and temporary. The faces of today quickly become the faces of the past. Sorrow, pain, and anger… it all fades- except love. Love is forever and there after, even when we’ve fallen to our graves.
Unless their use by readers bring them to life, books are indeed dead things.
And having once chosen, never to seek to return to the crossroads of that decision-for even if one chooses wrongly, the choice cannot be unmade.
To look upon its grass grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace.
You don’t notice the dead leaving when they really choose to leave you. You’re not meant to. At most you feel them as a whisper or the wave of a whisper undulating down. I would compare it to a woman in the back of a lecture hall or theater whom no one notices until she slips out.Then only those near the door themselves, like Grandma Lynn, notice; to the rest it is like an unexplained breeze in a closed room.
A man who cannot be enticed by money or intimidated by the threat of jail or death has two of the strongest weapons that anyone has to offer.
The worst part of writing fiction is the fear of wasting your life behind a keyboard. The idea that, dying, you’ll realize you only lived on paper. Your only adventures were make-believe, and while the world fought and kissed, you sat in some dark room masturbating and making money.
There was something about other people’s grief that was so exposing, so personal, that she felt she shouldn’t be looking.
You know, your first album is about really amazing things. Your first album is always about coming of age, first love, first loss, usually you suffer a first loss of someone that you love to death, even, you know, really big life lessons, things you learn from your parents’ divorce or from the travels that you took.
On no subject are our ideas more warped and pitiable than on death. … Let children walk with nature, let them see the beautiful blendings and communions of death and life, their joyous inseparable unity, as taught in woods and meadows, plains and mountains and streams of our blessed star, and they will learn that death is stingless indeed, and as beautiful as life, and that the grave has no victory, for it never fights.
As human beings, we’re born believing that we are the apex of creation, that we are invincible, that no problem exists that we cannot solve. But we inevitably die with all our beliefs broken.
The fear of death is why we build cathedrals, have children, declare war, and watch cat videos online at three a.m.
When a Tralfamadorian sees a corpse, all he thinks is that the dead person is in bad condition in the particular moment, but that the same person is just fine in plenty of other moments. Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is So it goes.
No lifetime is long enough for those who wish to create, Raul. Or for those who simply wish to understand themselves and their lives. It is, perhaps, the curse of being human, but also a blessing.
There is sorrow enough in the natural wayFrom men and woman to fill our day;But when we are certain of sorrow in store,Why do we always arrange for more?Brothers & Sisters, I bid you bewareOf giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives,When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives,Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain,But never will be sung to us again,Is they remembrance. Now the hour of restHath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best.
I planned my death carefully, unlike my life, which meandered along from one thing to another, despite my feeble attempts to control it.
It is natural to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes to that siren until she allures us to our death.
You have tasted of death now,” said the old man. “Is it good?” “It is good,” said Mossy. “It is better than life.”“No,” said the old man: “it is only more life.
I drive a motorbike, so there is the whiff of the grim reaper round every corner, especially in London.
I won’t be sad too often,If they bury me in the libraryWith bookworms in my coffin.
My father blamed me for my brother Gunther’s death, for not bringing him home. He died in an avalanche as we descended from the summit of Nanga Parbat, one of the 14 peaks over 8,000m, in 1970. Gunther and I did so much together. It was difficult for my father to understand what it was like up there.
In my world death will come chasing. In your world it will start whispering in your ear to destroy yourself. I know this because it started whispering to me when I was in the detention center.
DEAFNESS DOESN’T PREVENT COMPOSERS HEARING THE MUSIC. IT PREVENTS THEM HEARING THE DISTRACTIONS.
If you have ever lost someone very important to you, then you already know how it feels; and if you haven’t, you cannot possibly imagine it.
What an encouraging thought that Jesus – our beloved Husband – can find comfort in our lowly feeble gifts! Can this be, for it seems far too good to be true? May we then be willing to endure trials or even death itself if through these hardships we are assisted in bringing gladness to Immanuel’s heart.
Because the plan God has for each of our lives isn’t always the same plan we have for ourselves, Grace. Sometimes, our deaths have more of an impact than our births. It can inspire people to do great things, even greater than they would have had the deaths not happened at all.
One pain is lessened by another’s anguish. … Take thou some new infection to thy eye, And the rank poison of the old will die.
A dead dog is more quiet than a house on the steppes, a chair in a empty room.
When it over, I want to say:all my lifeI was a bride married to amazement.I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.When it’s over, I don’t want to wonderif I have made of my life something particular,and real.I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,or full of argument.I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.from When the death comes
And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn’t crying for him at all, but for the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again…
I recognized my work for what it was–as unimportant a drug as cigarettes to get one through the weeks and years. If we are extinguished by death, as I still try to believe, what point is there in leaving some books behind any more than bottles, clothes, or cheap jewellry?
This showed once again that everyone had something different to lose in this battle. Some were concerned for their lives, and some for those they cared most about: rays, sea horses, even the chickens that ran free in the streets of the city because they couldn’t all be caught in time.
For years the Trio did nothing but play for musicians and other hip people. We practically starved to death.
She started thinking about all the euphemisms for death, all the anxious taboos that had always fascinated her. It was too bad you could never have an intelligent discussion on the subject. People were either too young or too old, or else they didn’t have time.
You can still be cool when you’re dead. In fact, it’s much easier, because you aren’t getting old and fat and losing your hair.
Much as oblivion is the death of sorrowSo death is life’s forgetfulness
Suicide sometimes proceeds from cowardice, but not always; for cowardice sometimes prevents it; since as many live because they are afraid to die, as die because they are afraid to live
The first serious consciousness of Nature’s gesture – her attitude towards life-took form then as a phantasm, a nightmare, all insanity of force. For the first time, the stage-scenery of the senses collapsed; the human mind felt itself stripped naked, vibrating in a void of shapeless energies, with resistless mass, colliding, crushing, wasting, and destroying what these same energies had created and labored from eternity to perfect.