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

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.

Death renders all equal.

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

You are dust, and to dust you shall return.

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

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.

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

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

The life of the dead consists in the recollection cherished of them by the living.

I imagined it was more difficult to die. 

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.