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

The life of the dead consists in the recollection cherished of them by the living.

You are dust, and to dust you shall return.

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

I imagined it was more difficult to die. 

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.

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.

It is noble to die before doing anything that deserves death.

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 renders all equal.

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 keeps no calendar.

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