Life is sad. People, you know, are going to pass, and you know that you will one day.

But I am not going to live forever. And the more I know it, the more amazed I am by being here at all.

Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.

When I first came into parliament, there was, on average, a by-election every three months - due not to MPs bailing out, but because of the death rate.

She'll be waiting for me. Never before had he wanted immortality so badly.

There's nothing like love or incumbent death to make you realize how many things you still want to do.

His ghost comes back to be remembered. If he can't be in this life, he procures a way to stay in orbit, and in that way, is never forgotten.

"Evan Lucien, if it is my last act upon this Earth," he says, his eyes intense and shadowed in the lantern light, "I will make you come."

End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it. White...

The prospect of an early death sits differently upon each person. In some it gifts maturity far outweighing their age and experience: calm acceptance blossoms into a beautiful nature and soft...

I thought of the new stone, of my new wife, and of the newly buried white bones beneath us, and I felt that fate had made sport of us all.

It was cold, dark & lonely in the great cathedral - like chambers, with only coffins and corpses for company.

Everyone living is doomed

If you have ever felt slightly nauseous walking through an aged care facility, puckered your face against a smell, observed a grown woman clutching a dolly with desperation, felt a flood of melancholy...

Because in the end, we die. It's like Chekhov observed in so many of his plays: 'in two hundred years, no one will even know we were here.'

All things die, she told him. Such a truism, it was the trite utterance of any street-corner philosopher, but coming from Inaspe Raimm it sounded different. 'All things reach the end of their journey,...

The joy of writing. The power of preserving. Revenge of a mortal hand.

In the end, we all lose it. Remember that. In the end, we own nothing.

The dead to the grave, the living to the loaf.

Death! Strange that there should be such a word, and such a thing, and we ever forget it; that one should be living, warm and beautiful, full of hopes, desires and wants, one day, and the next be...

A man rarely knows the day and hour when he will die. I could be killed any moment and there's not a blasted thing I can do about it.

Half a year - maybe. Something like that. Rita did not look away. Part of her job was to help people look at what was coming. Dying could be lonely. A nurse was often an easier person to talk to than...

Being dead's a drug', he says, 'you'll get hooked on it.

risk winding up pushing up grass in the Tinnicum Swamps out by the airport, if something went wrong.

There is the house whose people sit in darkness; dust is their food and clay is their meat. They are clothed like birds with wings for covering, they see no light, they sit in darkness. I entered the...

but that is the way of things, with cities as with life, for one moment we are pottering about our errands as usual and the next we are dying, and our eternally impending ending does not put a stop to...

There were men and women who appeared as fluid as ghosts, they could have been attending a burial out of curiosity, merely to recall how it had been when they were buried.

In death, they all looked the same. This morning they spoke, they breathed, they kissed their loved ones good-bye. And now they lay dead. Gone forever.

At some time during the process, {of writing} I came up with a therapeutic device. After each draft I would tear up the pages and feed the paper to a worm compost I keep in my garage. A few months...

And I could have died right then. And considering how things went, I really should have.