Surely martyrs, irrespective of the special phase of the divine idea for which they gladly give up their bodies to torture and to death, are the truest heroes of history.
There is no life to be found in violence. Every act of violence brings us closer to death. Whether it's the mundane violence we do to our bodies by overeating toxic food or drink or the extreme violence of child abuse, domestic warfare, life-threatening poverty, addiction, or state terrorism.
A martyr can never cooperate with death, go to death in a way that they're not trying to escape.
If a man has not discovered something that he will die for, he isn't fit to live.
I am He who lives, and was dead, and behold, I am alive forevermore. Amen. And I have the keys of Hades and of Death.
Well, there are times when one would like to hang the whole human race and finish the farce.
The evil that men do lives after them;The good is oft interred with their bones.
I'm not afraid of death.
A witticism is an epigram on the death of a feeling.
...Sirius had never kept him waiting before...Sirius had risked everything, always, to see Harry, to help him...If Sirius was not reappearing out of that archway when Harry was yelling for him as though his life depended on it, the only possible explanation was that he could not come back...That he really was...
The day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying.
I am dying beyond my means.
Death is the king of this world: 'Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet
Failure too is a form of death.
No martyr ever went the way of duty, and felt the shadow of death upon it. The shadow of death is darkest in the valley, which men walk in easily, and is never felt at all on a steep place, like Calvary. Truth is everlasting, and so is every lover of it; and so he feels himself almost always.
Embrace the probability of your imminent death....and know there is nothing i can do to save you.
Here is a minute. It may be my love is dead, but here is a minute to kneel over the grave and pray by it.
Surely this is what death would be like: nothingness, oblivion, as the world continued to turn, heedless of her absence.
I love you Anna Covey,' he said, his voice barely audible. And slowly, clumsily, he leant forward, and his lips found hers, and Anna felt him kiss her awkwardly, she knew that she wasn't a Surplus any more. And nor was Peter.
Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.
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