Epitaph, n. An inscription on a tomb, showing that virtues acquired by death have a retroactive effect.

I imagined it was more difficult to die. 

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.

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

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

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.

Let my epitaph be, “Here lies Joseph, who failed in everything he undertook.”

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.

It is not my design to drink or sleep; my design is to make what haste I can to be gone.

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.

Is this dying? Is this all? Is this all that I feared when I prayed against a hard death? Oh, I can bear this! I can bear it!

The life of the dead consists in the recollection cherished of them by the living.