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

Death keeps no calendar.

You are dust, and to dust you shall return.

Whoever has died is freed from sin.

If a parricide is more wicked than anyone who commits homicide—because he kills not merely a man but a near relative—without doubt worse still is he who kills himself, because there is none nearer to a man than himself. 

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

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!

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

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

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

I do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

I don’t believe in an afterlife, although I am bringing a change of underwear.