#death

أعرف جيدًا أنّه ليس مؤلمًا على الإطلاق أن تقف خلف النافذة كما يفعل مَن ينتظر شيئًا ، أحدًا ما ، أو مَن يدفعه الفضولُ إلى الإطمئنان مرةً ثم أُخرى إلى أنَّ الأشياءَ في الخارج مازالتْ هناك وأنَّه لم يَمُت بعدُ لكي يفقدها ↗

— بسام حجار

#death

For how imperiously, how coolly, in disregard of all one’s feelings, does the hard, cold, uninteresting course of daily realities move on! Still we must eat, and drink, and sleep, and wake again, - still bargain, buy, sell, ask and answer questions, - pursue, in short, a thousand shadows, though all interest in them be over; the cold, mechanical habit of living remaining, after all vital interest in it has fled. ↗

— Harriet Beecher Stowe

#despair #letting-go #life #moving-on #sadness

People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!” There‘s dead silence on the set. It goes on. And on. Finally, the intercom crackles and Haymitch‘s acerbic laugh fills the studio. He contains himself just long enough to say, “And that, my friends, is how a revolution dies. ↗

— Suzanne Collins

#haymitch #katniss-everdeen #revolution #death

Do people look the same when they go to heaven, mommy?" "I don't know. I don't think so." "Then how do people recognize each other?" "I don't know, sweetie. They just feel it. You don't need your eyes to love, right? ↗

— R.J. Palacio

#heaven #love #wonder #death

One wants to tell a story, like Scheherezade, in order not to die. It's one of the oldest urges in mankind. It's a way of stalling death. ↗

— Carlos Fuentes

#death #writing #death

I am often thought of as being remarkably bright, and yet my brains, more often than not, are busily devising new and interesting ways of bringing my enemies to sudden, gagging, writhing, agonizing death. ↗

— Alan Bradley

#enemies #flavia-de-luce #humor #intelligence #sarcasm

Simon!" The voice was faint, but his hearing caught it over the pop and crackle of glowing flames. The smoke in the corridor had presaged heat; the heat was here now, pressing against him like an oppressive wall. "Simon!" The voice was Clary's. He would know it anywhere. He wondered if his mind was conjuring it up now, a sense of memory of what he'd most loved during life to carry him throught the process of death. "Simon, you stupid idiot! I'm over here! At the window!" Simon jumped to his feet. he doubted his mind would conjure that up. ↗

— Cassandra Clare

#simon-and-clary #death

Meaning is a shaky edifice we build out of scraps, dogmas, childhood injuries, newspaper articles, chance remarks, old fillms, small victories, people hated, people loved; perhaps it is because our sense of what is the case is constructed from such inadequate materials that we defend it so fiercely, even to death. ↗

— Salman Rushdie

#life #meaning #death

I know that I shall die struggling for breath, and I know that I shall be horribly afraid. I know that I shall not be able to keep myself from regretting bitterly the life that has brought me to such a pass; but I disown that regret. I now, weak, old, diseased, poor, dying, hold still my soul in my hands, and I regret nothing. ↗

— W. Somerset Maugham

#death

My love, do you recall the object which we saw, That fair, sweet, summer morn! At a turn in the path a foul carcass On a gravel strewn bed, Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman, Burning and dripping with poisons, Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way Its belly, swollen with gases. ↗

— Charles Baudelaire

#poison #wantonness #woman #death