The living all find death unpleasant; men mourn over it. And yet, what is death, but the unbending of the bow and its return to its case?

The skull opened its eyes wide, furrowed its brows, and said, "Why should I throw away a happiness greater than a king's to once again thrust myself into the troubles and anxieties of mankind?"

I was given life because it was my time, and now I take leave of it according to the same law. Content with the natural sequence of these events, I am touched neither by joy nor by grief. I am simply hanging in the air ... incapable of freeing myself, tied by the threads of things.

If you don't know how to live, why wonder about death?

I hold the view that death is rather like changing one's clothes when they are torn and old. It is not an end in itself. Yet death is unpredictable-you do not know when and howT it will take place.

To my mind, there are two things that, in life, you can do about death. Either you can choose to ignore it, in which case you may have some success in making the idea of it go away for a limited period of time, or you can confront the prospect of your own death and try to analyze it and, in so doing, try to minimize some of the inevitable suffering that it causes. Neither way can you actually overcome it.

We understand death for the first time when he puts his hand upon one whom we love.

Both the young and the old, both the wise and the foolish, end up in death.

That short, potential stir That each can make but once, That bustle so illustrious Tis almost consequence, Is the eclat of death.

Death is a reality in which no living creature believes.