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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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 imagined it was more difficult to die. 

Anyone who’s never watched somebody die is suffering from a pretty bad case of virginity.