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

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.

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. 

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 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.

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

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

Is this dying? Is this all? Is this all that I feared when I prayed against a hard death? Oh, I can bear this! I can bear it!

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

It is noble to die before doing anything that deserves death.

Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away.

Death renders all equal.

I imagined it was more difficult to die.