There is no man so fortunate that there shall not be by him when he is dying some who are pleased with what is going to happen.

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

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.

I’m doomed to die, right? Why should I care if I go to Hades either with gout in my leg or a runner’s grace? Plenty of people will carry me there.

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

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

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

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!

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

We and the dead ride quick at night. 

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. 

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.