Giving up on a purposeful journey of life is as deadly as death! When you pursue with tenacity, and strive through the adversities and the

it’s moments like
this – you can feel it
happening – that you grow
transformed
partly into something
else strange and
unimaginable—
so when death comes
it can only take
part of
you.

You have to die a few times before you can really live.

I’m tired of waiting to die. Let’s go out.

Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!”

You only live once, and when you’re dead you’re done, so let the good times roll.

Love is not a candle burning down. Life is. And love and life are not the same or else Love, having choice, nobody would ever die.

Now they are celebrating my demise in taverns I no longer frequent.

I killed four flies while waiting. Damn, death was everywhere. Man, bird, beast, reptile, rodent, insect, fish didn’t have a chance. The fix was in. I didn’t know what to do about it. I got depressed. You know, I see a boy at the supermarket, he’s packing my groceries, then I see him sticking himself into his own grave along with the toilet paper, the beer and the chicken breasts.

when confronted
with
dutiful
policemen
or
women
in rancor
I
have nothing
to
say
to them

for
if I
truly
began
it would
end
in
somebody’s
death:
theirs or
mine

so
I
let them
have
their
little
victories
which
they need
far
more
than
I
do.

You should have stopped her! She never thought anything through. She was so god damn impulsive you had to watch her like a three-year-old. You do one thing wrong, and she dies. How the fuck could you let her go?

“You’ll be the death of me! You’re as heartless as Howl!” Calcifer choked.

I live life with no fear, except for the idea that one day you won’t be here.

Alaska pulling the controller up and to the right, as if that would help her escape certain death. I had the same bad habit.

No, it is. But they don’t allow my grandfather to be buried there. He was laid to rest far away. I know how it sounds,

I’ve never seen anything so ugly… And that smell… awful… It smells like something dead and rotting… It’s the cat’s evil spirit… This is its

I only take family as patients, and I still get worked to death.

I know that I’m going to die and that you’re going to die. I can’t do anything about that. But I can explore it through a metaphor and make a kind of funny, dark story about it, and in doing so, really exhaust and research as many aspects of it as I can imagine. And in a way, that does give me some closure.

Ain’t kill myself yet, and I already want my life back.

Rambo: They’re all dead. All of them. I could have killed you ten times, but I wanted you last.
Hugo Martinez: Fuck you.
Rambo: No, fuck you, dead man. I want you to feel my rage, my hate, when I reach into your chest and RIP OUT YOUR HEART! Like you did mine.
Hugo Martinez: Fuck you… and your bitch too!
Rambo: You wanna live? Follow the lights!

This birth thing. And this death thing. Each one had it’s turn. We entered alone and we left alone. And most of us lived lonely and frightened and incomplete lives. An incomparable sadness descended up on me. Seeing all that life that must die. Seeing all that life that would first turn to hate, to dementia, to neuroses, to stupidity, to fear, to murder, to nothing – nothing in life and nothing in death.

“I only want to catch you,” Michael explained. “I won’t hurt you.”
“No! No!” the star crackled desperately. “That’s wrong! I’m supposed to die!”
“But I could save you if you’d let me catch you,” Michael told it gently.
“No!” cried the star. “I’d rather die!”
It dived away from Michael’s fingers. Michael plunged for it, but it was too quick for him. It swooped for the nearest marsh pool, and the black water leaped into a blaze of whiteness for just an instant. Then there was a small, dying sizzle. When Sophie hobbled over, Michael was standing watching the last light fade out of a little round lump under the dark water.
“That was sad,” Sophie said.

Neal: Del, what are you doing here? You said you were going home, what are you doing here?
Del: I uh… I don’t have a home. Marie’s been dead for eight years.

Last night, Alaska Young was in a terrible accident, and she was killed. Alaska Young has passed away.

There’s nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don’t live up until their death. They don’t honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can’t hear it. Most people’s deaths are a sham. There’s nothing left to die.

death is walking
up and down
this room
smoking my cigars
taking hits of my
wine.

Well, death says, as he walks by, I’m going to get you anyhow no matter what you’ve been: writer, cab-driver, pimp, butcher, sky-diver, I’m going to get you.

“Here we are,” she said and drove her car into the Hollywood cemetery.

“Nice,” I said, “real nice. I had forgotten all about death.”

King Mongut had 9,000 wives. Think of it: 365 days a year divided into 9,000. No arguments. No menstrual periods. No psychic overload. Just feast and feast and feast. It must have been very hard for King Mongut to die, or very easy. There could not have been an in-between.

All God’s plans have the mark of the cross on them, and all His plans have death to self in them.

you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction of distress.
they dress well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy death, usually in their
sleep.

you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.

but i am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them.
but they
are there

and I am
here.

is that death
stalking me
now?

no, it’s only my cat,
this
time.

we drove on and on,
past little villages and both good things and
bad things were happening to the
people in those villages too,
but I still was nothing
but arms and ears and eyes and maybe there’d be
either some good luck for me or
more death tomorrow.

Pudge: Who died?
Colonel: My future. Congratulations Pudge. As of tomorrow, you have a single.

Pudge: Why are all these people crying? She’s not dead. She does pranks. This is a prank. She’s really good at pranks.
The Eagle: Miles, Miles, I saw her. I’m sorry.

to fight for each minute is to
fight for what is possible within
yourself,
so that your life and your death
will not be like
theirs.

I felt peace, even though I was still scared to death. I thought that, whatever would happen to me – I could still be killed. I didn’t know – and in what I’d already been through, God was in control.

I will love you all my life and when I die I will still love you through eternity and beyond.

Trautman: John where are you going?
Rambo: I don’t know.
Trautman: You’ll get a second medal of honor for this.
Rambo: You should give it to them. They deserve it more.
Trautman: You don’t belong here, why don’t you come back with me?
Rambo: Back to what? My friends died here, and a piece of me did too.
Trautman: The war, the whole conflict may have been wrong, but damn it, don’t hate your country for it.
Rambo: Hate? I’d die for it.
Trautman: Then what is it you want?
Rambo: I want, what they want, and every other guy who came over here and spilled his guts and gave everything he had, wants! For our country to love us as much as we love it! That’s what I want!
Trautman: How will you live, John?
Rambo: Day by day.

Life is but a fleeting moment, just a shadow o’er the sun,
Man cannot create extensions; God decides when life is done.

I can’t live without you. I’d rather die than be without you.

I love you, and I’m gonna love you until the day I die.

It is a law that parents should not have to bury their children. And someone should enforce it.

Is it so hard to die, Mr. Lewis? Is that labyrinth really worse than this one?

This poor Sufi dressed in rags walked into a jewelry store owned by a rich merchant and asked him, “Do you know how you’re going to die?” The merchant answered, “No. No one knows how they’re going to die.” And the Sufi said, “I do.”
“How?” asked the merchant.
And the Sufi lay down, crossed his arms, said, “Like this,” and died, whereupon the merchant promptly gave up his store to live a life of poverty in pursuit of the kind of spiritual wealth the dead Sufi had acquired.

I knew we were all thinking of her, dead and laughless, cold, no longer Alaska. The idea that Alaska didn’t exist still stunned me every time I thought about it. She’s rotting underground in Vine Station, Alabama, I thought, but even that wasn’t quite it. Her body was there, but she was nowhere, nothing, POOF.

The silence broke: “Sometimes I liked it,” I said. “Sometimes I liked it that she was dead.”
“You mean it felt good?”
“No. I don’t know. It felt … pure.”

Someone said, ‘Mr. President, you sure can’t say Dallas doesn’t love you,’ and then he said, ‘That’s obvious,’ and then he got shot.

And POOF we are driving through the moment of her death. We are driving through the place that she could not drive through, passing onto asphalt she never saw, and we are not dead. We are not dead! We are breathing and we are crying and now slowing down and moving back into the right lane.

The final exam: What is the most important question human beings must answer? Choose your question wisely, and then examine how Islam, Buddhism, and Christianity attempt to answer it.

“I hope that poor bastard lives the rest of the school year,” the Colonel said as we jogged home through the rain, “because I’m sure starting to enjoy that class. What’s your most important question?”

After thirty seconds of running, I was already winded. “What happens… to us… when we die?”

I couldn’t believe what I had done to him, his eyes glittering green like Alaska’s but sunk deep into dark sockets, like a green-eyed, still-breathing ghost, and don’t no don’t don’t die, Alaska. Don’t die.

The day after my mom took me to the zoo where she liked the monkeys and I liked the bears, it was a Friday. I came home from school. She gave me a hug and told me to go do my homework in my room so I could watch TV later. I went into my room, and she sat down at the kitchen table, I guess, and then she screamed, and I ran out, and she had fallen over. She was lying on the floor, holding her head and jerking. And I freaked out. I should have called 911, but I just started screaming and crying until finally she stopped jerking, and I thought she had fallen asleep and that whatever had hurt didn’t hurt anymore. So I just sat there on the floor with her until my dad got home an hour later.

“It wasn’t a big deal. I got out fine.”
“You could have died.” And I could have, I suppose. But I didn’t.

Death wasn’t part of God’s original plan for humanity, and the Bible calls death an enemy – the last enemy to be destroyed.

God is the only one who can raise a man from the dead because everything honours Him, even death.

This is unbearable … God. These books she’ll never read. Her Life’s Library.

The Colonel and I are walking back to our dorm room in silence. I am staring at the ground beneath me. I cannot stop thinking that she is dead, and I cannot stop thinking that she cannot possibly be dead. People do not just die. I can’t catch my breath.

I knew that I would know more dead people. The bodies pile up. Could there be a space in my memory for each of them, or would I forget a little of Alaska every day for the rest of my life?

Why would you try to kill this guy, Kevin? He’s a genius. Nuts to your truce.

Carmen Delgado: If someone sees you, we both will die. Coming back here is so dangerous. Did you find her?
Rambo: She’s dead.
Carmen Delgado: Oh, I’m sorry. I really am. I know how you feel. But coming back was dangerous. Why are you here?
Rambo: I want to find the thin one.
Carmen Delgado: No.
Rambo: The one that cut her.
Carmen Delgado: No.
Rambo: The one that cut me.

Maria Beltran: I heard the news. Two people died.
Rambo: I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t save my brothers in the war either.
Maria Beltran: You cannot blame yourself because you going to save some people. You are not in the war anymore. Only in your head.
Rambo: It’s hard to turn off.
Maria Beltran: Sitting there, you remind me of your father. He would sit outside, in his rocking chair. Always thinking, never talking. But you have done a wonderful job here. Running this place. I can’t thank you enough for letting me stay, and helping raise Gabriella.
Rambo: Thanks.

“That’s pretty amazing, the countries thing,” I said.
“Yeah, everybody’s got a talent. I can memorize things. And you can…?”
“Um, I know a lot of people’s last words.” It was an indulgence, learning last words. Other people had chocolate; I had dying declarations.

I thought at first she was just dead. Just darkness. Just a body being eaten by bugs. I thought about her alot like that, like someone’s meal. What was her – green eyes, half a smirk, the soft curves of her legs – would soon be nothing, just the bones I never saw. I thought about the slow process of becoming bone and then fossil and then coal that will, in millions of years, be mined by humans of the future, and how they would heat their homes with her, and then she would be smoke billowing out of a smokestack, coating the atmosphere.

Reading it the night before, I’d wondered if it would be like that for me – if in one moment, I would finally understand her, know her, and understand the role I’d played in her dying. But I wasn’t convinced enlightenment struck like lightining.

“Example?”
“I like Henrik Ibsen’s. He was a playwright.” I knew a lot about Ibsen, but I’d never read any of his plays. I didn’t like reading plays. I liked reading biographies.
“Yeah, I know who he was,” said Chip.
“Right, well, he’d been sick for a while and his nurse said to him, ‘You seem to be feeling better this morning,’ and Ibsen looked at her and said, ‘On the contrary,’ and then he died.”
Chip laughed. “That’s morbid. But I like it.”

I’ve lived in a world of death. I’ve watched people I’ve loved die. Some fast with a bullet, some not enough left to bury. All these years I’ve kept my secrets, but the time has come to face my past. And if they come looking for me, they will welcome death. I want revenge. I want them to know that death is coming. And there’s nothing they can do to stop it. I want them to feel our grief, and know that’s the last thing they will ever feel. And I know you want it too.

I’ve lived in a world of death. I tried to come home, but I never really arrived. A part of my mind and soul got lost along the way, but my heart was still here where I was born, where I would defend to the end the only family I’ve ever known, the only home I’ve ever known. All the ones I’ve loved are now ghosts. But I will fight to keep their memory alive forever.

That’s my dad. He was coming up in the pro-stock circuit. Last race of the season, he was coming into the final turn when a driver named Kenny Linder tapped his bumper and put him into the wall at a hundred and twenty miles an hour. I watched my father burn to death. I can still remember him screaming. The people who were there said my father died long before the tanks blew. They said it was me that was screaming.

Chopin’s bones are dead and they are shooting from the housetops and I sit in a dirty noisy kitchen in hell writing to Henry Miller.

But it’s only when a man gets to the point of a gun in his mouth that he can see the whole world inside of his head. Anything else is conjecture, conjecture and bullshit and pamphlets.

Endurance is more important than truth because without endurance there can’t be any truth. And truth means going to the end like you mean it. That way, death itself comes up short when it grabs.

“Sometimes there is a dark cloud that never passes. It stays forever!”
“Well, that’s death.”

Listen, is it true that Celine and Hemingway died on the same day?

There’s a small balcony here, the door is open and I can see the lights of the cars on the Harbor Freeway south, they never stop, that roll of lights, on and on. All those people. What are they doing? What are they thinking? We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities. We are eaten up by nothing.

Almost everybody is born a genius and buried an idiot.

The old has passed away…the new has come.

The Bible is very clear on life and death. Death is not the end but a beginning.

I walked a hundred thousand miles, long way from home. Miss my niggas, some dead, some ain’t comin’ home.

Why is a new day dawning? Why do they look like they’re having so much fun? Why is the TV telling me about tomorrow’s weather? Why didn’t the world end the day Katsuya died?

He who is silent and bows his head dies every time he does so. He who speaks aloud and walks with his head held high dies only once.

You learn fast or you die young.

Don’t get conceited…you little bitch. If you think you can “save” Yuki or Kyo…you should be ashamed of your arrogance. Let me tell you… I’ll tell you the truth. Kyo…will be confined just as soon as he leaves high school. Just like the previous Cat before him for his whole life until he dies. And Yuki…will return to the family compound…with me. All of them…will live and die with me. All of the Juunishi will live…in the same home, following the path. No one comes in…no one will be stolen away. Always remaining the same. A happy future. An endless banquet. Unchanging. And I won’t…let you join us!

You could’ve killed me slugging me in the gut like that. That’s how Houdini died, you know.

…If Tohru-chan were to die, I… I wonder if I’d be able to smile again one year later. Or if I’d wish that I could forget ever having met her. …Tohru-chan… has tried really hard…

You can’t be afraid of death if you’re going to drive a truck.

She taught me everything I knew about crawfish and kissing and pink wine and poetry. She made me different.
I lit a cigarette and spit into the creek. “You can’t just make me different and then leave,” I said out loud to her. “Because I was fine before, Alaska. I was fine with just me and last words and school friends, and you can’t just make me different and then die.”

And, anyway, we didn’t know how much it might mean. Last words are always harder to remember when no one knows that someone’s about to die.

You can’t just make yourself matter and then die, Alaska, because now I am irretrievably different, and I’m sorry I let you go, yes, but you made the choice. You left me Perhapsless, stuck in your goddamned labyrinth. And now I don’t even know if you chose the straight and fast way out, if you left me like this on purpose. And so I never knew you, did I? I can’t remember, because I never knew.

There is always death at the end of your plan and life at the end of God’s plan.

The Buddha knew one thing science didn’t prove for millennia after his death: Entropy increases. Things fall apart.

More than anything, I felt the unfairness of it, the inarguable injustice of loving someone who might have loved you back but can’t due to deadness, and then I leaned forward, my forehead against the back of Takumi’s headrest, and I cried, whimpering, and I didn’t even feel sadness so much as pain.

And now she was colder by the hour, more dead with every breath I took. I thought: That is the fear: I have lost something important, and I cannot find it, and I need it. It is fear like if someone lost his glasses and went to the glasses store and they told him the world run out of glasses and he would just have to do without.

Masoud, Afghan Mujahedeen Leader: Now you see how it is here. Somewhere in the war there’s supposed to be honor. Where’s the honor here? Where? Now, we’re taking the survivors to the border. Are you coming?
Rambo: I’m going to the fort.
Masoud, Afghan Mujahedeen Leader: Have you not seen enough death? Go! Go while you can! This isn’t your war.
Rambo: It is now.
Masoud, Afghan Mujahedeen Leader: So be it. You’re a good friend.

Teasle: He was just another drifter who broke the law!
Trautman: Vagrancy wasn’t it? That’s gonna look real good on his grave stone in Arlington: Here lies John Rambo, winner of the Congressional Medal of Honor, survivor of countless incursions behind enemy lines. Killed for vagrancy in Jerkwater, USA.
Teasle: Now don’t give me any of that crap Trautman. Do you think Rambo was the only guy who had a tough time in Vietnam? He killed a police officer for Christ’s sake!
Trautman: You’re goddamn lucky he didn’t kill all of you.

Y’all smoke to enjoy it. I smoke to die.

I found myself thinking about President William McKinley, the third American president to be assassinated. He lived for several days after he was shot, and towards the end, his wife started crying and screaming, “I want to go too! I want to go too!” And with his last measure of strength, McKinley turned to her and spoke his last words: “We are all going.”

People, I thought, wanted security. They couldn’t bear the idea of death being a big black nothing, couldn’t bear the thought of their loved ones not existing, and couldn’t even imagine themselves not existing. I finally decided that people believed in an afterlife because they couldn’t bear not to.

I did not drop by. I didn’t know what to say to her — I was caught in a love triangle with one dead side.

It’s not life or death, the labyrinth. Suffering. Doing wrong and having wrong things happen to you. That’s the problem. Bolivar was talking about the pain, not about the living or dying. How do you get out of the labyrinth of suffering?

That’s the mystery, isn’t it? Is the labyrinth living or dying?

What is an “instant” death anyway? How long is an instant? Is it one second? Ten? The pain of those seconds must have been awful as her heart burst and her lungs collapsed and there was no air and no blood to her brain and only raw panic. What the hell is instant? Nothing is instant. Instant rice takes five minutes, instant pudding an hour. I doubt that an instant of blinding pain feels particularly instantaneous.

But a lot of times, people die how they live. And so last words tell me a lot about who people were, and why they became the sort of people biographies get written about. Does that make sense?

“So this guy,” I said, standing in the doorway of the living room. “François Rabelais. He was this poet. And his last words were ‘I go to seek a Great Perhaps.’ That’s why I’m going. So I don’t have to wait until I die to start seeking a Great Perhaps.”

Death is something untimely and will always leave the heart, soul, and mind wounded because a piece of our own lives feels scraped away when we lose someone. Though the pain is unfortunate, God always knows best.

I’m a big ‘Goosebumps’ fan – ‘Revenge of the Lawn Gnomes.’ My favorites are the pick-your-own-death ones.

Get him! He had no right to shoot my babies. Get the son of a bitch!

Deputy Mitch: Why don’t you let the state police handle this?
Teasle: Look! Look at him. Look at him! That’s Art Galt, boy. He and I were friends when your mama was still wiping your nose! Now he’s dead. He’s dead because of that psycho out there. Now you listen, boy, and you listen to me good. I’m gonna get that son of a bitch and I’m gonna pin that Congressional Medal of Honor to his liver. And I’m gonna do it with you or without you.

Trautman: Company leader to identify Baker Team – Rambo, Messner, Ortega, Coletta, Jorgensen, Danforth, Berry, Krakauer confirm! This is Colonel Trautman. Talk to me, Johnny.
Rambo: They’re all gone Sir.
Trautman: Rambo! Are you all right?
Rambo: Baker Team. They’re all dead, sir.
Trautman: Not Delmar Berry, he made it.
Rambo: Berry’s gone too Sir.
Trautman: How?
Rambo: Got himself killed in ‘Nam, didn’t even know it. Cancer ate him down to the bone.
Trautman: I’m sorry, I didn’t know.
Rambo: I’m the last one Sir.

Rambo: There’s one man dead! It’s not my *fault*! I don’t want anymore hurt!
Teasle: Freeze! Stand right where you are! Give yourself up!
Rambo: But I didn’t do anything!
Teasle: I’m warning you boy, don’t make a move or I’ll blow your head off!
Rambo: I didn’t do anything!

I could have killed ’em all, I could’ve killed you. In town you’re the law, out here it’s me. Don’t push it! Don’t push it or I’ll give you a war you won’t believe! Let it go. Let it go!

Who sleeps at night? No one is sleeping.

In the cradle a child is screaming.

An old man sits over his death, and anyone

young enough talks to his love, breathes

into her lips, looks into her eyes.

Oh God, midnight’s not bad, you wake and go back to sleep, one or two’s not bad, you toss but sleep again. Five or six in the morning, there’s hope, for dawn’s just under the horizon. But three, now, Christ, three A.M.! Doctors say the body’s at low tide then. The soul is out. The blood moves slow. You’re the nearest to dead you’ll ever be save dying. Sleep is a patch of death, but three in the morn, full wide-eyed staring, is living death! You dream with your eyes open. God, if you had strength to rouse up, you’d slaughter your half-dreams with buckshot! But no, you lie pinned to a deep well-bottom that’s burned dry. The moon rolls by to look at you down there, with its idiot face. It’s a long way back to sunset, a far way on to dawn, so you summon all the fool things of your life, the stupid lovely things done with people known so very well who are now so very dead – And wasn’t it true, had he read somewhere, more people in hospitals die at 3 A.M. than at any other time…

There will be sleeping enough in the grave.

Only the insomniac looks on with open eyes, like a cadaver who forgot to die.

Being old gave [Sophie] an entirely new view of Fanny. She was a lady who was still young and pretty, and she had found the hat shop as boring as Sophie did. But she had stuck with it and done her best, both with the shop and with the three girls—until Mr. Hatter had died. Then she had suddenly been afraid she was just like Sophie: old with no reason, and nothing to show for it.

‘You know this could kill me, don’t you?’
‘Look on the bright side,’ said Howl. ‘It could be me it kills.’

“If you’re thinking of calling on that Mrs. Pentstemmon, you can save yourself the trouble. The old biddy’s dead.”
“Dead?” said Sophie. She had a silly impulse to add, But she was alive an hour ago! And she stopped herself, because death is like that: people are alive until they die.

“Calcifer,” Sophie said, “I shall have to break your contract. Will it kill you?” “It would if anyone else broke it,” Calcifer said hoarsely. “That’s why I asked you to do it.”

‘Don’t interrupt,’ one of the boys said. ‘He’ll lose his life.’
Seeing it was a matter of life and death, Sophie and Michael backed toward the door. But Howl, quite unperturbed at killing his nephew, strode over to the wall and pulled the boxes up by the roots.

“Really, these wizards! You’d think no one had ever had a cold before! Well, what is it?” she asked, hobbling through the bedroom door onto the filthy carpet.
“I’m dying of boredom,” Howl said pathetically. “Or maybe just dying.”

“I feel ill,” he announced. “I’m going to bed, where I may die.” He tottered piteously to the stairs. “Bury me beside Mrs. Pentstemmon,” he croaked as he went up then to bed.

The reason ‘closure’ is a cliche is that it is used too often, too imprecisely, and doesn’t in any case reflect reality. In reality, such closure in broken friendships and much else in life is rarely achieved; only death brings closure and then not always for those still living.

Closure: Now there’s a silly idea. Nothing ever gets closure, the only real closure is death. Maybe it’s not a good idea to stare a dying bird in the eye. It might reflect something back at you that you don’t want to see.

I’m not interested in closure. Some people just have heart attacks and die, right? There’s no closure.

If you’re lucky, you get a second act in life. But sooner or later, death will come – unannounced. Old Man Reaper comes to reclaim your soul. All you can hope for is that the people you loved will cherish the time they spent with you.

It is related of an Englishman that he hanged himself to avoid the daily task of dressing and undressing.

The Englishman who has lost his fortune is said to have died of a broken heart.

How superbly brave is the Englishman in the presence of the awfulest forms of danger and death; and how abject in the presence of any

An Englishman fears contempt more than death.

When I die, please bury me in my Jeep only.

Shit, you can die from that?