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 imagined it was more difficult to die. 

To desire immortality for the individual is really the same as wanting to perpetuate an error forever.

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.

Nobody, sir, dies willingly.

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

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.

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. 

Whoever has died is freed from sin.

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

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

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.