Sometimes I wonder if suicides aren't in fact sad guardians of the meaning of life.


Suicide may also be regarded as an experiment — a question which man puts to Nature, trying to force her to answer. The question is this: What change will death produce in a man's existence and in his insight into the nature of things? It is a clumsy experiment to make; for it involves the destruction of the very consciousness which puts the question and awaits the answer.


The obsession with suicide is characteristic of the man who can neither live nor die, and whose attention never swerves from this double impossibility.


The prevalence of suicide, without doubt, is a test of height in civilization; it means that the population is winding up its nervous and intellectual system to the utmost point of tension and that sometimes it snaps.


Then is it sin to rush into the secret house of death. Ere death dare come to us?


There are many who dare not kill themselves for fear of what the neighbors will say.


There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. All the rest — whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories — comes afterwards. These are games; one must first answer.


When one does away with oneself one does the most estimable thing possible: one thereby almost deserves to live.


Whenever any affliction assails me, I have the keys of my prison in mine own hand, and no remedy presents it selfe so soone to my heart, as mine own sword. Often meditation of this hath wonne me to a charitable interpretation of their action, who dy so: and provoked me a little to watch and exagitate their reasons, which pronounce so peremptory judgments upon them.


Would Hamlet have felt the delicious fascination of suicide if he hadn't had an audience, and lines to speak?

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