Death keeps no calendar.

In dealing with the dead, if we treat them as if they were entirely dead, that would show a want of affection and should not be done; or, if we treat them as if they were entirely alive, that would show a want of wisdom and should not be done.

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

The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways—I to die, and you to live. Which is better, only the god knows.

Whoever has died is freed from sin.

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.

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!

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

What is death? A scary mask. Take it off—see, it doesn’t bite.

We and the dead ride quick at night. 

I order that my funeral ceremonies be extremely modest, and that they take place at dawn or at the evening Ave Maria, without song or music.

I do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

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