If a man will observe as he walks the streets, I believe he will find the merriest countenances in mourning coaches.

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

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

It is not my design to drink or sleep; my design is to make what haste I can to be gone.

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.

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.

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!

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

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

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

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.

Epitaph, n. An inscription on a tomb, showing that virtues acquired by death have a retroactive effect.

We and the dead ride quick at night.