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

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

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

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

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

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!

Man has here two and a half minutes—one to smile, one to sigh, and half a one to love; for in the midst of this minute he dies.

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.

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

Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away.

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.

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.