I do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

Anyone who’s never watched somebody die is suffering from a pretty bad case of virginity.

You are dust, and to dust you shall return.

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.

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

I’m doomed to die, right? Why should I care if I go to Hades either with gout in my leg or a runner’s grace? Plenty of people will carry me there.

When a man dies, and his kin are glad of it, they say, “He is better off.”

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.

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

The only evidence, so far as I know, about another life is, first, that we have no evidence; and, secondly, that we are rather sorry that we have not, and wish we had.

I was born without knowing why, I have lived without knowing why, and I am dying without either knowing why or how.

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

The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways—I to die, and you to live. Which is better, only the god knows.