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

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

I imagined it was more difficult to die. 

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

Nobody, sir, dies willingly.

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

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.

Every individual existence goes out in a lonely spasm of helpless agony.

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.

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.

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

A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest.