I do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

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

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

We and the dead ride quick at night. 

Nobody, sir, dies willingly.

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 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.

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.

When a man dies, and his kin are glad of it, they say, “He is better off.”

Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.

There never is absolute birth nor complete death, in the strict sense, consisting in the separation of the soul from the body. What we call births are developments and growths, while what we call deaths are envelopments and diminutions.

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.

I was born without knowing why, I have lived without knowing why, and I am dying without either knowing why or how.