The call of death is a call of love. Death can be sweet if we answer it in the affirmative, if we accept it as one of the great eternal forms of life and transformation.

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

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.

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

A god cannot procure death for himself, even if he wished it, which, so numerous are the evils of life, has been granted to man as our chief good.

Whoever has died is freed from sin.

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

I do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

When a man dies, and his kin are glad of it, they say, “He is better off.”

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.

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.

Death renders all equal.

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.