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

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

Men have written in the most convincing manner to prove that death is no evil, and this opinion has been confirmed on a thousand celebrated occasions by the weakest of men as well as by heroes. Even so I doubt whether any sensible person has ever believed it, and the trouble men take to convince others as well as themselves that they do shows clearly that it is no easy undertaking. 

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. 

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

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

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.

Death renders all equal.

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

Under the wide and starry sky, / Dig the grave and let me lie.

I do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

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

When a man dies, and his kin are glad of it, they say, “He is better off.”