Each day is a little life: every waking and rising a little birth, every fresh morning a little youth, every going to rest and sleep a little death.
Don’t you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you’re not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you’ve lived nearly half the time you have to live already?
Do you know what it’s like to hold someone else’s life in your hands? It’s like playing God. Can you think of anything scarier than that?
Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love.
Do I dare disturb the universe? In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
Disease was a perverse, a dissolute form of life.
Death is so terribly final, while life is full of possibilities.
Death is one moment, and life is so many of them.
Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood.
Cultures die. Life is not circular but ruthlessly straight.
Could it be, even for elderly people, that this was life? – startling, unexpected, unknown?
Contemporaneity specializes in the kind of battles wherein no one loses anything of any value, except arguably their lives.
