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

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.

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

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!

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

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. 

What is death? A scary mask. Take it off—see, it doesn’t bite.

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

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. 

Nobody, sir, dies willingly.

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

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