Death (n.) is where life starts for the man who counts himself already dead.
Death (n.) is the close of life to the wicked and its dawn to the just.
Death (n.) felt approaching brought him not melancholy but a peaceful languor that even had its pleasures.
Death (n.) would have been sweet in youth, before he had tasted the injustice of mankind that embitters both life and dying.
Death (n.) met well brings a regular gaiety too steady to be faked, a counterweight to the melancholy of the deathbed.
Death (n.) is what makes life affordable: life would be too dearly bought did we not know that sooner or later it will end.
Death (n.) by writing also inaugurates life: Rousseau never began to live until he looked upon himself as a dead man.
Death (n.) meets the child's first protest — "Oh nurse! I don't want to die!" "My dear, no one wants to die, and everybody dies."
Death (n.) is unknown to animals: the knowledge of it and its terrors is one of the first things man acquires on leaving the animal state.
Death (n.) is not the penalty of poverty but a law of nature — it shall never find me making preparations for life, nor prevent me having lived.
Death (n.) is known only to man: the knowledge of death and its terror is among the first acquisitions made in leaving the animal state.
Death (n.) is the cure for the evils you bring on yourself: nature would not have you suffer perpetually — who would wish to live for ever?
Death (n.) is feared neither by the ignorant nor by the wise; it is half-knowledge and sham wisdom that set us thinking about it, and so create the worst of our ills.
Death (n.) is best learnt by living in freedom, independent of human affairs: the boy who has never rebelled against necessity will die, if he must, without a groan.
Death (n.) is met calmly by nature's man; it is doctors with their rules, philosophers with their precepts and priests with their exhortations who teach us to fear it.