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. 

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. 

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

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!

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.

You are dust, and to dust you shall return.

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

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

Death keeps no calendar.

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

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.

I do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

There is no man so fortunate that there shall not be by him when he is dying some who are pleased with what is going to happen.