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.

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. 

You are dust, and to dust you shall return.

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

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

I imagined it was more difficult to die. 

Nobody, sir, dies willingly.

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

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

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

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

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.