I have offended God and mankind because my work didn't reach the quality it should have.
I want my food dead. Not sick, not dying, dead.
Time rushes towards us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation.
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.
On a day of burial there is no perspective--for space itself is annihilated. Your dead friend is still a fragmentary being. The day you bury him is a day of chores and crowds, of hands false or true to be shaken, of the immediate cares of mourning. The dead friend will not really die until tomorrow, when silence is round you again. Then he will show himself complete, as he was--to tear himself away, as he was, from the substantial you. Only then will you cry out because of him who is leaving and whom you cannot detain.
Oh wow. Oh wow. Oh wow.
Death is but crossing the world, as friends do the seas; they live in one another still.
I died as a mineral and became a plant, I died as a plant and rose to animal, I died as an animal and I was Man. Why should I fear? When was I less by dying?
No neurotic harbors thoughts of suicide which are not murderous impulses against others redirected upon himself.
The long habit of living indisposeth us for dying.
I was dying but suddenly had a second chance at living.
Death, the most dreaded of evils, is therefore of no concern to us; for while we exist death is not present, and when death is present we no longer exist.
We are ignorant of the Beyond because this ignorance is the condition of our own life. Just as ice cannot know fire except by melting and vanishing.
Every three or four years I pick a new subject. It may be Japanese art; it may be economics. Three years of study are by no means enough to master a subject but they are enough to understand it. SO for more than 60 years I have kept studying one subject at a time.
The difficulty about all this dying, is that you can't tell a fellow anything about it, so where does the fun come in?
Just like those who are incurably ill, the aged know everything about their dying except exactly when.
See in what peace a Christian can die.
Living is death; dying is life. We are not what we appear to be. On this side of the grave we are exiles, on that citizens; on this side orphans, on that children.
One who does not know when to die, does not know how to live.
Having seen and felt the end, you have willed the means to the realization of the end.
Death not merely ends life, it also bestows upon it a silent completeness, snatched from the hazardous flux to which all things human are subject.
Dying is a troublesome business: there is pain to be suffered, and it wrings one's heart; but death is a splendid thing -a warfare accomplished, a beginning all over again, a triumph. You can always see that in their faces.
Ignore death up to the last moment; then, when it can't be ignored any longer, have yourself squirted full of morphia and shuffle off in a coma. Thoroughly sensible, humane and scientific, eh?
Not think of death as an end, but think of it more as a very effective way of cutting down on your expenses.
We do not want to destroy any people. It is precisely because we have been advocating coexistence that we have shed so much blood.
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