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.

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

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

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

Death keeps no calendar.

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.

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.

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

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.

Life is a farce, and should not end with a mourning scene.

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

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.