Death keeps no calendar.

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

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

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. 

I imagined it was more difficult to die. 

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.

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

If a parricide is more wicked than anyone who commits homicide—because he kills not merely a man but a near relative—without doubt worse still is he who kills himself, because there is none nearer to a man than himself. 

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

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.

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

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

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