Death has not always open ears to the wishes and prayers of your gentlemen inheritors.[La mort n’a pas toujours les oreilles ouvertes aux vœux et aux prières de messieurs les héritiers.]
Death has messengers who roam the streets in search of dimwits and numbskulls, people who never think about things like death and mortality.
Death has a hundred hands and walks by a thousand ways.
Death doesn’t matter but the ultimate inconvenience of near-death is worse than galling.
Death commences too early — almost before you’re half acquainted with life — you meet the other…
Death comes for us all. We can only choose how to face it when it comes.
Death at each moment, one avenue which is open to us at any point. And eventually we choose it, in spite of ourselves. Or we give up and take it deliberately.
Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away.
Death and taxes and childbirth! There’s never any convenient time for any of them!
Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood.
Cultures die. Life is not circular but ruthlessly straight.
Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.
