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

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.

What is death? A scary mask. Take it off—see, it doesn’t bite.

A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest.

I doubt that we have any right to pity the dead for their own sakes.

Men have written in the most convincing manner to prove that death is no evil, and this opinion has been confirmed on a thousand celebrated occasions by the weakest of men as well as by heroes. Even so I doubt whether any sensible person has ever believed it, and the trouble men take to convince others as well as themselves that they do shows clearly that it is no easy undertaking. 

Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.

There is no man so fortunate that there shall not be by him when he is dying some who are pleased with what is going to happen.

Can we not live without pleasure, who cannot but with pleasure die?

We and the dead ride quick at night. 

Death keeps no calendar.

Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away.