- "Ancient Egyptians believed that upon death they would be asked two questions and their answers would determine whether they could continue their journey in the afterlife. The first question was, 'Did you bring joy?' The second was, 'Did you find joy?'" --Leo Buscaglia
- "I said to Life, I would hear Death speak. And Life raised her voice a little higher and said, You hear him now." --Kahlil Gibran
- "Never the spirit was born, the spirit shall cease to be never. Never was time it was not, end and beginning are dreams." --The Bhagavad Gita
- "Death and death alone gives meaning to life and this meaning is entirely negative." --Georges Poulet
- "Our souls are prisoners of the terror of death, and the day is beautiful."
- Coelho, Paulo (1998). "Chapter 1", Quinta Montanha (The Fifth Mountain), translated by Clifford E. Landers, 1st edition (in English), New York: HarperFlamingo. ISBN 0060175443.
- "The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone." --Harriet Beecher Stowe
- To be, or not to be, —that is the question:—
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? —To die, —to sleep,—
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, —'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, —to sleep;—
To sleep! perchance to dream: —ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,—
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns,—puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know naught of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
copyright @ 2007 eddie evans |