#de

As the cleansing ocean closes over bin Laden's carcass, may the earth lie lightly on the countless graves of those he sentenced without compunction to be burned alive or dismembered in the street. ↗

— Christopher Hitchens

#death

Pentru mine, moartea este doar hotarul unde inceteaza sa mai existe "maine". Numai pana acolo poti sa iubesti, sa visezi, sa regreti. Brusc, tot ce n-ai facut va ramane pentru totdeauna nefacut. ↗

— Octavian Paler

#death

the meeting between ignorance and knowledge, between brutality and culture - it begins in the dignity with which we treat the dead ↗

— Frank Herbert

#death

When compared to the fact that he might very well be dead by this time tomorrow, whether he was courageous or not today was pointless, empty. When compared to the fact that he might be dead tomorrow, everything was pointless. It just didn't make any difference. It was pointless to the tree, it was pointless to every man in his outfit, pointless to everybody in the whole world. Who cared? It was not pointless only to him; and when he was dead, when he ceased to exist, it would be pointless to him too. More important: Not only would it be pointless, it would have been pointless all along. This was an obscure and rather difficult point to grasp. Understanding of it kept slipping in and out on the edges of his mind. It flickered, changing its time sense and tenses. At those moments when he understood it, it left him with a very hollow feeling. ↗

— James Jones

#emptiness #pointlessness #understanding #change

Would that death were like this. Would that one would sleep and sleep and sleep forever. ↗

— Anne Rice

#hope #wisdom #death

if we don’t rebel, if we’re not physically in an active rebellion, then it’s spiritual death. ↗

— Chris Hedges

#death

The Trifler Death's the lover that I'd be taking; Wild and fickle and fierce is he. Small's his care if my heart be breaking- Gay young Death would have none of me. Hear them clack of my haste to greet him! No one other my mouth had kissed. I had dressed me in silk to meet him- False young Death would not hold the tryst. Slow's the blood that was quick and stormy, Smooth and cold is the bridal bed; I must wait till he whistles for me- Proud young Death would not turn his head. I must wait till my breast is wilted. I must wait till my back is bowed, I must rock in the corner, jilted- Death went galloping down the road. Gone's my heart with a trifling rover. Fine he was in the game he played- Kissed, and promised, and threw me over, And rode away with a prettier maid. ↗

— Dorothy Parker

#poetry #death

Man," he said, "I'm not afraid of graveyards. The dead are just, you know, people who wanted the same things you and I want." "What do we want?" I asked blurrily. "Aw, man, you know," he said. "We just want, well, the same things these people wanted." "What was that?" He shrugged. "To live, I guess," he said. ↗

— Michael Cunningham

#death

Bez te tačke, za koju si vezan, ne bi volio ni drugi svijet, ne bi imao kud da odeš, jer ne bi bio nigdje. ↗

— Meša Selimović

#home #travel #death

He passed his hands over some of the fine embossed bindings as he thought, I am a book also, words and thoughts and stories held together by flesh. We open and close ourselves to the world. We are read by others or put away by them. We wait to be seen, sitting quietly on shelves for someone to bother having a look inside us. ↗

— Ari Berk

#people #read #reading #death