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.

Can we not live without pleasure, who cannot but with pleasure die?

Nobody, sir, dies willingly.

I was born without knowing why, I have lived without knowing why, and I am dying without either knowing why or how.

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 hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways—I to die, and you to live. Which is better, only the god knows.

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

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.

If a parricide is more wicked than anyone who commits homicide—because he kills not merely a man but a near relative—without doubt worse still is he who kills himself, because there is none nearer to a man than himself. 

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

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.

I looked and there was a pale green horse! Its rider’s name was Death, and Hades followed with him.