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. 

Life is a farce, and should not end with a mourning scene.

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

You are dust, and to dust you shall return.

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

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

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.

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

There never is absolute birth nor complete death, in the strict sense, consisting in the separation of the soul from the body. What we call births are developments and growths, while what we call deaths are envelopments and diminutions.

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.

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

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

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