Power is only an aphrodisiac for the living dead

Death is a state of mind—many people on Earth spend their entire lives dead.

The trigger gave; I felt the smooth underside of the butt; and there, in that noise, sharp and deafening at the same time, is where it all started. I shook off the sweat and the...

Late-Flowering LustMy head is bald, my breath is bad,Unshaven is my chin,I have not now the joys I hadWhen I was young in sin.I run my fingers down your dressWith brandy-certain aimAnd you respond to...

You will take his life but you can’t take his memory out of us.

All death matters.””Only to the living.

The only enemy which stands between the talent you posses and success you achieve is known as “EGO” in our Society

I felt the unfairness of it, the inarguable injustice of loving someone who might have loved you back but can’t due to deadness.

Time change – Moments don’t.

Energy is neither created nor destroyed. It just changes shape.

Aquela putain, Emma Bovary, tem a vida eterna e eu morro como um cão.

I wish to live to 150 years old, but the day I die, I wish it to be with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other.

The wretch, concentred all in self,Living, shall forfeit fair renown,And, doubly dying, shall go downTo the vile dust, from whence he sprung,Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

(…) and then I realized there was no one else to call, which was the saddest thing. The only person I really wanted to talk to about Augustus Water’s death was Augustus Water.

Hope is a horrible thing, you know. It’s a plague. It’s like walking around with a fishhook in your mouth and someone just keep pulling it and pulling it.”STATE OF WONDER

Fear can’t be reasoned with. Neither can hate. They’re like love. They’re almost identical emotions.

How can I begin to tell you how much I miss you without using those three common words that can’t even start to express the magnitude nor the depth of my emotions. How can I...

Forerun thy peers, thy time, and letThy feet, millenniums hence, be set In midst of knowledge, dream’d not yet.

Unattached and aimless, these old men are always infatuated with little certainties and regularities such as those that ordered the life of Mr. Krupper as seen from outside. Habit is living. Anything unexpected reminds them...

Fate is cruel but maybe not random. Nature (meaning Death) always wins but that doesn’t mean we have to bow and gravel to it.

Maybe that was one of the problems with these men who lived forever, they’d built up an immunity or resistance to affection. Perhaps because when everyone they knew and loved continued to die, they realized...

Toda vida, le dijo esa noche Epifanio a Lalo Cura, por más feliz que sea, acaba siempre en dolor y sufrimiento. Depende, dijo Lalo Cura. ,Depende de qué, buey? De muchas cosas, dijo Lalo Cura....

I got my laptop out from under the bed and fired it up and went onto his wall page, where already the condolences were flooding in. Themost recent one said:I love you, bro. See you...

I’ll remember you, he thinks, and as the gun carriage, with its coffin and its dented helmet pass him by, he closes his eyes.Nothing will bring them back. Not the words of comfortable men. Not...

The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a...

. . . owning a dog always ended with this sadness because dogs just don’t live as long as people do.

Even death itself is made wretched by terror and fear.

Emptiness is this world’s greatest discovery. Who has chosen this kind world for us and why?

The dead are silent because they live, just as we chatter so loudly to try to make ourselves forget that we are dying. Their silence is really their call to me, the assurance of their...

Not the slow Hearse, where nod the sable plumes, The Parian Statue, bending o’er the Urn, The dark robe floating, the dejection worn On the dropt eye, and lip no smile illumes; Not all this...

It would be wrong to refuse to face the fact that everything is fundamentally sick and sad.

When you die, do you want to feel ashamed of what you’ve done with your life? Feel ashamed of what your life meant?

You leave behind your fine poems.You leave behind your beautiful flowers. And the earth that was only leant to you. You ascend into the Light, O Quechomitl, you leave behind the flowers and the singing...

May be the power lies in the hands of the one who holds the gun… so he just presses the trigger whenever the slightest streak of anger passes his mind… and after a few haunting...

[Jürgen Habermas’ obituary to friend and philosopher, Richard Rorty]One small autobiographical piece by Rorty bears the title ‘Wild Orchids and Trotsky.’ In it, Rorty describes how as a youth he ambled around the blooming hillside...

It is a terrible thing to witness death by violence, a thousand times worse to hold a man’s life in your own hands and to willingly, consciously take it from him. Acknowledged or not, something...

One life; a little gleam of Time between two Eternities; no second chance to us for evermore!

Conscience is no more than the dead speaking to us.

The reason America is in its death-throes is because America has lost moral authority.

Most things may never happen: this one will.

The death of someone we know always reminds us that we are still alive – perhaps for some purpose which we ought to re-examine.

What’s the use in prolonging life if you don’t do anything with it?

Psychologists have clinically observed that overly prolonged grief in the bereaved usually signifies a poor relationship with the one who died.

We understood it was possible to know things one was not supposed to know…” Lone Walk From Panther Creek.

Pulvis et umbra sumus. It’s a line from Horace. ‘We are dust and shadows’. Appropriate, don’t you think?” Will said. “It’s not a long life, killing demons; one tends to die young, and then they...

I was ravenous for my child and took to gorging myself in the boneyard, hoping that she might possibly meet me halfway, or just beyond, one night, if only for an instant—step back into her...

Only a poet can translate for the dead.

When was it I realized that, on this truly dark and solitary path we all walk, the only way we can light is our own? Although I was raised with love, I was always lonely.Someday,...

Until two days ago what had driven him was the will to survive: deep, animal, full of rage—but always part of him had not cared at all whether he lived or died. Now he did...

You know, darkness is a funny thing. Little by little, it creeps up on you and before you know it, you can’t escape it