I do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

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

The call of death is a call of love. Death can be sweet if we answer it in the affirmative, if we accept it as one of the great eternal forms of life and transformation.

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.

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

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.”

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

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

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

Imagine a number of men in chains, all under sentence of death, some of whom are each day butchered in the sight of the others; those remaining see their own condition in that of their fellows and, looking at each other with grief and despair, await their turn. This is an image of the human condition.

Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.

Death keeps no calendar.