The call of death is a call of love. Death can be sweet if we answer it in the affirmative, if we accept it as one of the great eternal forms of life and transformation.

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.

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.

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

Death keeps no calendar.

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.

Imagine a number of men in chains, all under sentence of death, some of whom are each day butchered in the sight of the others; those remaining see their own condition in that of their fellows and, looking at each other with grief and despair, await their turn. This is an image of the human condition.

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

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

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. 

I am about to take my last voyage, a great leap in the dark.

Epitaph, n. An inscription on a tomb, showing that virtues acquired by death have a retroactive effect.

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