The call of death is a call of love. Death can be sweet if we answer it in the affirmative, if we accept it as one of the great eternal forms of life and transformation.

Every individual existence goes out in a lonely spasm of helpless agony.

The play is the tragedy “Man,” And its hero the conqueror worm.

Man has here two and a half minutes—one to smile, one to sigh, and half a one to love; for in the midst of this minute he dies.

Those from whom we were born have long since departed, and those with whom we grew up exist only in memory. We, too, through the approach of death, become, as it were, trees growing on the sandy bank of a river.

Nobody, sir, dies willingly.

I think it makes small difference to the dead if they are buried in the tokens of luxury. All this is an empty glorification left for those who live.

A god cannot procure death for himself, even if he wished it, which, so numerous are the evils of life, has been granted to man as our chief good.

Life is a farce, and should not end with a mourning scene.

I don’t believe in an afterlife, although I am bringing a change of underwear.

Bereavement is a darkness impenetrable to the imagination of the unbereaved.

It is noble to die before doing anything that deserves death.

I imagined it was more difficult to die.