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

The only evidence, so far as I know, about another life is, first, that we have no evidence; and, secondly, that we are rather sorry that we have not, and wish we had.

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

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.

I order that my funeral ceremonies be extremely modest, and that they take place at dawn or at the evening Ave Maria, without song or music.

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

In dealing with the dead, if we treat them as if they were entirely dead, that would show a want of affection and should not be done; or, if we treat them as if they were entirely alive, that would show a want of wisdom and should not be done.

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

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.

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.

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

Death renders all equal.