A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest.

Can we not live without pleasure, who cannot but with pleasure die?

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

Death keeps no calendar.

I doubt that we have any right to pity the dead for their own sakes.

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.

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.

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

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.

The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways—I to die, and you to live. Which is better, only the god knows.

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.

Anyone who’s never watched somebody die is suffering from a pretty bad case of virginity.

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