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

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

If a man will observe as he walks the streets, I believe he will find the merriest countenances in mourning coaches.

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

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.

The play is the tragedy “Man,” And its hero the conqueror worm.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

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

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.

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.

I imagined it was more difficult to die. 

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. 

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.