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

Death keeps no calendar.

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

Imagine a number of men in chains, all under sentence of death, some of whom are each day butchered in the sight of the others; those remaining see their own condition in that of their fellows and, looking at each other with grief and despair, await their turn. This is an image of the human condition.

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

I do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

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.

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

I looked and there was a pale green horse! Its rider’s name was Death, and Hades followed with him.

I am about to take my last voyage, a great leap in the dark.

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.

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

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.