But how do we even get to the land of the dead?” I asked. “I mean…without dying.
It's a wonderful way to live, and not a bad way to go, either. The average Frenchman is still smiling three months after he's dead.
. . . most people are dead, and none of them seem to mind it. One hears a great many complaints about life, doesn't one? And there are people I know who would certainly grumble -- however dead they were -- if there were anything to grumble at.
Bright is the ring of words When the right man rings them, Fair the fall of songs When the singer sings them. Still they are carolled and said - On wings they are carried - After the singer is dead And the maker buried.
Once someone's dead you can't make them undead.
I felt so lonesome I most wished I was dead. The stars were shining, and the leaves rustled in the woods ever so mournful; and I heard an owl, away off, who-whooing about somebody that was dead, and a whippowill and a dog crying about somebody that was going to die.
One of the best possible perspectives from which to tell a story is that of a ghost, someone who is dead but can still witness.
I'll be writing records until I'm dead, whether people like it or not!
