I hope it is true that a man can die and yet not only live in others but give them life, and not only life but that great consciousness of life.
Time has laid his hand
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.
The warriors that fought for their country, and bled,
Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed;
No stone tells the place where their ashes repose,
Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes.
They died in their glory, surrounded by fame,
And Victory’s loud trump their death did proclaim;
They are dead; but they live in each Patriot’s breast,
And their names are engraven on honor’s bright crest.
Her death must be sad for the handful of people she was nice to and the rich people who got richer under her stewardship. It isn’t sad for anyone else.
And so I set these things down before the onset of the first of a thousand small physical degradations as, in a still-distant suburb, Death strides whistling towards me.
It was a lovely morning. We have not had many lovely days. And the sun was just coming through the stained glass windows and falling on some flowers right across the church and it just occurred to me that this was the day I was meant not to see.
A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.
The grave itself is but a covered bridge,
Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness!
There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.
Never here, forever there,
Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time shall disappear,—
Forever there, but never here!
The horologe of Eternity
Sayeth this incessantly,—
“Forever — never!
Never — forever!”
…if you opposed Thatcher’s ideas it was likely because of their lack of compassion, which is really just a word for love. If love is something you cherish, it is hard to glean much joy from death, even in one’s enemies.
YOU HAVE PERHAPS HEARD THE PHRASE THAT HELL IS OTHER PEOPLE?
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Death nodded.
IN TIME, he said, YOU WILL LEARN THAT IT IS WRONG.
Haymitch: Embrace the probability of your imminent death, and know in your heart that there’s nothing I can do to save you.
Adama: Are they the lucky ones? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? We’re a long way from home. We’ve jumped way beyond the Red Line, into uncharted space. Limited supplies, limited fuel. No allies, and now, no hope? Maybe it would have been better for us to have died quickly, back on the Colonies with our families, instead of dying out here slowly, in the emptiness of dark space. Where shall we go? What shall we do? Life here began out there.
Number Six: Are you alive?
Military Liaison: Yes.
Number Six: Prove it.
My father has asked me to be the fourth corner at the Joy Luck Club. I am to replace my mother, whose seat at the mah jong table has been empty since she died two months ago. My father thinks she was killed by her own thoughts.
It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.
Jason: Slow painful death by disease… or watching the love of your life die a slow painful death by disease?
Julie: A. Definitely A. Much worse to be without the person you love than to have a slow painful death. You?
Jason: Oh, B.
Julie: Really? You would rather watch the love of your life die slowly and painfully?
Jason: Well, it wouldn’t be awesome, but better them than me. Got a lot of good years left.
I can remember how when I was young I believed death to be a phenomenon of the body; now I know it to be merely a function of the mind — and that of the minds who suffer the bereavement. The nihilists say it is the end; the fundamentalists, the beginning; when in reality it is no more than a single tenant or family moving out of a tenement or a town.
It takes two people to make you, and one people to die. That’s how the world is going to end.
It is my ambition to be, as a private individual, abolished and voided from history, leaving it markless, no refuse save the printed books; I wish I had enough sense to see ahead thirty years ago, and like some of the Elizabethans, not signed them. It is my aim, and every effort bent, that the sum and history of my life, which in the same sentence is my obit and epitaph too, shall be them both: He made the books and he died.
Glenn: Admit it, you only came back to Atlanta for the hat.
Rick Grimes: Don’t tell anybody.
Daryl Dixon: You’ve given away half our guns and ammo.
Glenn: Not nearly half.
Daryl Dixon: For what? A bunch of old farts who are gonna die off momentarily anyhow? Seriously, how long do you think they got?
Glenn: How long do any of us?
The important thing is to get yourself born. You’re entitled to that. But you’re not entitled to life. Because if you were entitled to life, then the life would have to be quantified. How many years? Seventy? Sixty? Shakespeare was dead at fifty-two. Keats was dead at twenty-six. Thomas Chatterton at seventeen.
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love,
My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim,
And I am all aweary of my life.
There’s somewhat flows to us in life,
But more is taken quite away.
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife,
That we may die the self-same day.