I do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

Man has here two and a half minutes—one to smile, one to sigh, and half a one to love; for in the midst of this minute he dies.

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.

You are dust, and to dust you shall return.

Whoever has died is freed from sin.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

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

Is this dying? Is this all? Is this all that I feared when I prayed against a hard death? Oh, I can bear this! I can bear it!

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

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

I order that my funeral ceremonies be extremely modest, and that they take place at dawn or at the evening Ave Maria, without song or music.