Death keeps no calendar.

Whoever has died is freed from sin.

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. 

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

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

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

To desire immortality for the individual is really the same as wanting to perpetuate an error forever.

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

Let my epitaph be, “Here lies Joseph, who failed in everything he undertook.”

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 do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

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

Death renders all equal.