Die, v.: To stop sinning suddenly.
Call no man happy before he dies, he is at best but fortunate.
To be idle is a short road to death and to be diligent is a way of life; foolish people are idle, wise people are diligent.
If physical death is the price that I must pay to free my white brothers and sisters from a permanent death of the spirit, then nothing can be more redemptive.
Those who have the strength and the love to sit with a dying patient in the silence that goes beyond words will know that this moment is neither frightening nor painful, but a peaceful cessation of the functioning of the body.
No one else can take risks for us, or face our losses on our behalf, or give us self-esteem. No one can spare us from life’s slings and arrows, and when death comes, we meet it alone.
When I die, I hope to go to Heaven, whatever the Hell that is.
Those who welcome death have only tried it from the ears up.
Birth and death; we all move between these two unknowns.
Death is the tyrant of the imagination.
Tradition demands that we not speak poorly of the dead.
Death is a fearful thing.
All our knowledge merely helps us to die a more painful death than animals that know nothing.
To have died once is enough.
Even at our birth, death does but stand aside a little. And every day he looks towards us and muses somewhat to himself whether that day or the next he will draw nigh.
Death most resembles a prophet who is without honor in his own land or a poet who is a stranger among his people.
If you don’t know how to die, don’t worry; Nature will tell you what to do on the spot, fully and adequately. She will do this job perfectly for you; don’t bother your head about it.
Everything that gets born dies.
I’m not afraid to die.
I’ve looked that old scoundrel death in the eye many times but this time I think he has me on the ropes.
Someone who is about to die does not mourn the dead.
Fling but a stone, the giant dies.
Are there moments when I see unrequited crushes or ex-boyfriends slow dancing with their dates and kind of want to stab myself in the spleen with a salad fork? Yeah, sure.
Hell, madam, is to love no longer.
If you don’t have any fight in you, you might as well be dead.
