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. 

I imagined it was more difficult to die. 

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.

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.

Death keeps no calendar.

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

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

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

Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away.

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

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. 

You are dust, and to dust you shall return.

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