It takes so many years to learn that one is dead.
If you live to be one hundred, you've got it made. Very few people die past that age.
The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath, While underneath such leafy tents they keep The long, mysterious Exodus of Death.
To design the future effectively, you must first let go of your past.
Death does not discriminate; whether saints or sinners, in the end, all are equal.
The best writing deadlines are poverty and death.
Everything, decided Francie after that first lecture, was vibrant with life and there was no death in chemistry. She was puzzled as to why learned people didn't adopt chemistry as a religion.
The only things of certainty are Death and Taxes.
So here I was expecting at the very best a cordial welcome from the girls who were prepared to fight me to the death for someone I didn’t want. Instead I was embraced.
I do not myself find it agreeable to be 90, and I cannot imagine why it should seem so to other people. It is not that you have any fears about your own death, it is that your upholstery is already dead around you.
If nothing saves us from death, at least love should save us from life
David Bowie's music is a moving target. Just when you think you got the bullseye, it shifts. And to his credit, on to death, it's still shifting. David Bowie is a moving target, even after he's gone.
I've been accused many times of not talking very much, but I guess I don't believe in talking things to death. You can talk too much on most anything and it stops being productive. There is a time for action. Eventually you have to pull the trigger.
The dead are too much with us.
Death is not the greatest of evils; it is worse to want to die, and not be able to.
So love the thought of death, love it.
If this is death, it is easier than life.
Then love-devouring Death do what he dare.
I live now on borrowed time, waiting in the anteroom for the summons that will inevitably come. And then - I go on to the next thing, whatever it is. One doesn't, luckily, have to bother about that.
Death is the king of this world: 'Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.