Death keeps no calendar.

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. 

We and the dead ride quick at night. 

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.

It is not my design to drink or sleep; my design is to make what haste I can to be gone.

Can we not live without pleasure, who cannot but with pleasure 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.

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

Death renders all equal.

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.

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.

Imagine a number of men in chains, all under sentence of death, some of whom are each day butchered in the sight of the others; those remaining see their own condition in that of their fellows and, looking at each other with grief and despair, await their turn. This is an image of the human condition.