death-and-dying

I wonder about death, I who may never know it. It looks much like ecstacy, the way they open their mouths as they drown, the way their fingers dig into your skin. Their eyes are wide and startled and they trash in your hands as though with an excess of passion.

Dying has a funny way of making you see people, the living and the dead, a little differently. Maybe that's just part of the grieving, or maybe the dead stand there and open our eyes a bit wider.

Everybody dies. There__ nothing you can do about it. Whether or not you eat six almonds a day. Whether or not you believe in God. (Although there__ no question a belief in God would come in handy. It would be great to think there__ a plan, and that everything happens for a reason. I don__ happen to believe that. And every time one of my friends says to me, __verything happens for a reason,_ I would like to smack her.)

This was how the world ended. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

If you can't imagine it, think clumsy silence. Think bits and pieces of floating despair. And drowning in a train.

It is best as one grows older to strip oneself of possessions, to shed oneself downward like a tree, to be almost wholly earth before one dies.

Who set Rome on fire? The man we must admire. For killing his wife, and taking the life of mother and brother and so many others, while plucking his damnable lyre.

That__ part of what I like about the book in some ways. It portrays death truthfully. You die in the middle of your life, in the middle of a sentence

It is necessary to meditate early, and often, on the art of dying to succeed later in doing it properly just once.

We could endlessly reminisce, live in the past to an unhealthy degree, then politely kill each other some winter night before bedtime, stirring poison into our cups of whiskey-spiked chamomile tea, wearing party hats. Then, nervous about our double homicide, we could lie in bed together, holding hands again, frightened and waiting, still wondering, after all these years, if we even believed in our own souls.

Most people die at 25 and aren__ buried until they__e 75.

The old man smiled. 'I shall not die of a cold, my son. I shall die of having lived.

Dying was misery. Death was that period at the end of the sentence.

I mean, they say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time.

Oh how wrong we were to think immortality meant never dying

I__ curious about why there__ so much honor given to death, when there is no honor in losing someone you love.

She could forgive him for missing their dinner date, but she would never forgive him for dying.

Death. It is a strange stalker, one that we spend our whole lives running from, some more successful than others.