#dying

We feel most alive when we are closest to death. ↗

— Nenia Campbell

#death-and-dying #life #philosophy #death

Life is happiness, life is death; we are born, we grow old, and we die. There is nothing is wrong with the cycle of life, our time on earth had a limit set at the very moment we were born. ↗

— Martin Suarez

#birth #clinging #dying #life #life-and-death

Now she knew living was just a brief hiatus, a blip really, in the infinite line of nothingness that composed that shadowy realm of the unknown. It could stop at any time. ↗

— Nenia Campbell

#dying #life #living #death

Nobody wants to believe that existence carries on without at least taking a stumble from their departure of this world. ↗

— Nenia Campbell

#dying #gavin #life #philosophy #thoughts

The music echoes in the emptiness. It reminds us where we came from and where we’re bound. ↗

— David Mutti Clark

#death-and-dying #griot #music #spirituality #troubadour

Once a flower is picked it immediately begins to die. ↗

— Nenia Campbell

#dying #metaphor #death

The only dream worth having, I told her, is to dream that you will live while you're alive and die only when you're dead. ↗

— Arundhati Roy

#carpe-diem #dead #death #dream #dying

Our culture's quest to hide death behind a facade of denial has made fools and pretended immortals of us all. Perhaps it would be more helpful and liberating to begin each day by repeating the words of Crazy Horse, "Today is a good day to die. ↗

— Richard Paul Evans

#culture #death #dying #death

Only the rocks live forever, Gray Wolf said. ↗

— James A. Michener

#death

It appears that some part of Slothrop ran into the AWOL Džabajev one night in the heart of downtown Niederschaumdorf. (Some believe that fragments of Slothrop have grown into consistent personae of their own. If so, there's no telling which of the Zone's present-day population are offshoots of his original scattering. There's supposed to be a last photograph of him on the only record album ever put out by The Fool, an English rock group—seven musicians posed, in the arrogant style of the early Stones, near an old rocket-bomb site, out in the East End, or South of the River. It is spring, and French thyme blossoms in amazing white lacework across the cape of green that now hides and softens the true shape of the old rubble. There is no way to tell which of the faces is Slothrop's: the only printed credit that might apply to him is "Harmonica, kazoo—a friend." But knowing his Tarot, we would expect to look among the Humility, among the gray and preterite souls, to look for him adrift in the hostile light of the sky, the darkness of the sea. . . .) ↗

— Thomas Pynchon

#death