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

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.

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

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!

I do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

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.

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 was born without knowing why, I have lived without knowing why, and I am dying without either knowing why or how.

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

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’m doomed to die, right? Why should I care if I go to Hades either with gout in my leg or a runner’s grace? Plenty of people will carry me there.

When a man dies, and his kin are glad of it, they say, “He is better off.”

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