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.

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

Death keeps no calendar.

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

Death renders all equal.

The dead are often just as living to us as the living are, only we cannot get them to believe it. They can come to us, but till we die we cannot go to them. To be dead is to be unable to understand that one is alive. 

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 play is the tragedy “Man,” And its hero the conqueror worm.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

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

We and the dead ride quick at night.