Death keeps no calendar.

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

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

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.

In dealing with the dead, if we treat them as if they were entirely dead, that would show a want of affection and should not be done; or, if we treat them as if they were entirely alive, that would show a want of wisdom and should not be done.

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

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

I imagined it was more difficult to die. 

Under the wide and starry sky, / Dig the grave and let me lie.

To desire immortality for the individual is really the same as wanting to perpetuate an error forever.

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

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.

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