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.

You are dust, and to dust you shall return.

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

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

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. 

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

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.

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. 

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!

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.

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.

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