#death

I think being condemned to death is the only real distinction," said Mathilde. "It is the only thing which cannot be bought. ↗

— Stendhal

#death

The living mourn the dead for a time but they forget about them as days pass. The living are so selfish, so spoilt, so taken with the very act of living that they don't remember long. ↗

— Natsuo Kirino

#forgetting #mourning #death

We were enemies to the core, more so now than ever, but my loss was his. When I suffered, he suffered. It was the way we were built, and even the death that he had indirectly caused couldn't breach that or shatter what lay between us. Nothing could. ↗

— Jennifer L. Armentrout

#death

Awareness is a choiceless consciousness. Awareness is the capacity to embrace, accept and include both joy and sadness, love and aloneness, light and darkness, male and female qualities and life and death. Through saying “yes” and accepting both tendencies and including whatever aspect that happens in the moment, we meet our unlimited and boundless inner being. The inner man and woman need to find their own independence and integrity. ↗

— Swami Dhyan Giten

#aloneness #awareness #darkness #death #female

Horror would not annoy a soldier any more than the sight of a hammer annoys a carpenter. It is sentimental to pretend that horror is not the tool of the soldier, just as the hammer is the tool of the carpenter. We live off death and the threat of death and we must take it calmly and use it well.... Eventually I came to enjoy killing, as a pianist enjoys the Czerny which keeps his fingers limber for the Beethoven. ↗

— Irwin Shaw

#warfare #death

But I was innocent only because I did not carry firearms. Whoever has witnessed death as I have seen it, men falling, hit by bullets, dying under a clear sky, not knowing sometimes from what direction they were fired upon, could not think himself to be innocent. Nor could I do anything about the killings on either side. It made me feel guilty, as if I had been a participant in all that had happened. I had knowledge, I could not claim to be innocent. ↗

— Jean Arasanayagam

#death

... as we travel again between life and death, Waking and dream, blinking, while layers within layers, None better, none worse, unravel and knit up before us . . . ↗

— Jay Woodman

#dream #layers #life #travel #wake

You laugh as you sing about dying, you drug yourself up, but you can still see clearly, and you die as you break into a fit of laughter, because asi es la vida in this soup of islands stewed in hunger and the desire to be someone else. ↗

— Mayra Santos-Febres

#drugs #laughter #death

Life is a banquet and most poor saps are starving to death! ↗

— Auntie Mame

#mame #rosalind-russell #death

Woolrich had a genius for creating types of story perfectly consonant with his world: the noir cop story, the clock race story, the waking nightmare, the oscillation thriller, the headlong through the night story, the annihilation story, the last hours story. These situations, and variations on them, and others like them, are paradigms of our position in the world as Woolrich sees it. His mastery of suspense, his genius (like that of his spiritual brother Alfred Hitchcock) for keeping us on the edge of our seats and gasping with fright, stems not only from the nightmarish situations he conjured up but from his prose, which is compulsively readable, cinematically vivid, high-strung almost to the point of hysteria, forcing us into the skins of the hunted and doomed where we live their agonies and die with them a thousand small deaths. ↗

— Francis M. Nevins

#cornell-woolrich #doomed #hunted #hysteria #nightmarish