Nobody, sir, dies willingly.

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.

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

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!

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

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.

Epitaph, n. An inscription on a tomb, showing that virtues acquired by death have a retroactive effect.

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.

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

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. 

I looked and there was a pale green horse! Its rider’s name was Death, and Hades followed with him.

Whoever has died is freed from sin.

If a man will observe as he walks the streets, I believe he will find the merriest countenances in mourning coaches.