Death is a release from the impressions of the senses, and from desires that make us their puppets, and from the vagaries of the mind, and from the hard service of the flesh.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
Death is something that happens to others, you think, until it happens to you.
Death is the separation of soul from body.
Death is someone you see very clearly with eyes in the center of your heart: eyes that see not by reacting to light, but by reacting to a kind of a chill from within the marrow of your own life.
There is no such thing as death; life is only a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves.
The subject of death is taboo. We feel, perhaps only subconsciously, that to be in contact with death in any way, even indirectly, somehow confronts us with the prospect of our own deaths, draws our own deaths closer and makes them more real and thinkable.
Death is the beginning of something.
For those who live neither with religious consolations about death nor with a sense of death (or of anything else) as natural, death is the obscene mystery, the ultimate affront, the thing that cannot be controlled. It can only be denied.
The death of what's dead is the birth of what's living.
Death is the great hope of all life; the desire to expend itself; to be used and consumed by its own longing for itself.
Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.