Bereavement is a darkness impenetrable to the imagination of the unbereaved.

Life is a farce, and should not end with a mourning scene.

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

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.

Death keeps no calendar.

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.

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.

I do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

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. 

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

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

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