You are dust, and to dust you shall return.

I do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

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

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.

A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest.

Anyone who’s never watched somebody die is suffering from a pretty bad case of virginity.

We and the dead ride quick at night. 

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. 

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. 

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

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. 

I imagined it was more difficult to die. 

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