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

Every individual existence goes out in a lonely spasm of helpless agony.

The call of death is a call of love. Death can be sweet if we answer it in the affirmative, if we accept it as one of the great eternal forms of life and transformation.

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.

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.

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

Death renders all equal.

Whoever has died is freed from sin.

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

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

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