We die in proportion to the words we fling around us.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
I've spent a lot of words on my own mortality.
We try, we fail, we posture, we aspire, we pontificate - and then we age, shrink, die, and vanish.
For death is no more than a turning of us over from time to eternity.
Men, today we die a little.
How strangely do we diminish a thing as soon as we try to express it in words.
All knowledge which ends in words will die as quickly as it came to life, with the exception of the written word: which is its mechanical part.
What we live by we die by.
All our words are but crumbs that fall down from the feast of the mind.
We die as often as we lose a friend.
Death will never be pretty - its sights and smells too close and crude. And it will never come under our control: it gallops where we tiptoe, rips up our routines, burns our very breath with its heat and sting.