'Tis all a Checker-board of Nights and days where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays: Hither and thither moves, and mates and slays, and one by one back in the Closet lays.
A physician can sometimes parry the scythe of death, but has no power over the sand in the hourglass.
As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; They kill us for their sport.
But there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.
Creation destroys as it goes, throws down one tree for the rise of another. But ideal mankind would abolish death, multiply itself million upon million, rear up city upon city, save every parasite alive, until the accumulation of mere existence is swollen to a horror.
Death does determine life. Once life is finished it acquires a sense; up to that point it has not got a sense; its sense is suspended and therefore ambiguous. However, to be sincere I must add that for me death is important only if it is not justified and rationalized by reason. For me death is the maximum of epicness and death.
Let us beware of saying that death is the opposite of life. The living being is only a species of the dead, and a very rare species.
Life is the desert, life the solitude, death joins us to the great majority.
Life, in my estimation, is a biological misadventure that we terminate on the shoulders of six strange men whose only objective is to make a hole in one with you.
Living is a sickness to which sleep provides relief every sixteen hours. It's a palliative. The remedy is death.
Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He comet up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.