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

Nobody, sir, dies willingly.

I order that my funeral ceremonies be extremely modest, and that they take place at dawn or at the evening Ave Maria, without song or music.

Whoever has died is freed from sin.

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 think it makes small difference to the dead if they are buried in the tokens of luxury. All this is an empty glorification left for those who live.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.