It is not my design to drink or sleep; my design is to make what haste I can to be gone.

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

I do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

I doubt that we have any right to pity the dead for their own sakes.

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

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

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

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.

The dead are often just as living to us as the living are, only we cannot get them to believe it. They can come to us, but till we die we cannot go to them. To be dead is to be unable to understand that one is alive. 

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.

The only evidence, so far as I know, about another life is, first, that we have no evidence; and, secondly, that we are rather sorry that we have not, and wish we had.

We and the dead ride quick at night.