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

The life of the dead consists in the recollection cherished of them by the living.

Under the wide and starry sky, / Dig the grave and let me lie.

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

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

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

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.

You are dust, and to dust you shall return.

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

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

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.

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.

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.