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

I order that my funeral ceremonies be extremely modest, and that they take place at dawn or at the evening Ave Maria, without song or music.

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

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.

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

We and the dead ride quick at night. 

I imagined it was more difficult to die. 

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.

I do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

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

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.

Death renders all equal.

Nobody, sir, dies willingly.