I am about to take my last voyage, a great leap in the dark.

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.

A god cannot procure death for himself, even if he wished it, which, so numerous are the evils of life, has been granted to man as our chief good.

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. 

Death renders all equal.

Whoever has died is freed from sin.

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.

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

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

Death keeps no calendar.

Bereavement is a darkness impenetrable to the imagination of the unbereaved.

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.