I don’t believe in an afterlife, although I am bringing a change of underwear.

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

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.

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

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!

There is no man so fortunate that there shall not be by him when he is dying some who are pleased with what is going to happen.

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

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.

Death renders all equal.

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.

The dead are often just as living to us as the living are, only we cannot get them to believe it. They can come to us, but till we die we cannot go to them. To be dead is to be unable to understand that one is alive. 

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