Dead Quotes
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The dead know how to savor as the living never can.
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50 Cent is a hero to me because he's overcome so many things. He's been shot nine times and lived. I had a cousin got shot once in the ankle. Dead. I had to go to the funeral. I was mad. Man, you ain't hard! You ain't hard!
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She is dead. Almost certainly dead. Nearly conclusively dead. She is, at the very least, not answering her telephone.
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Jesus and Lincoln, Moses and Jefferson can seem so long gone, so unbelievable, so dead.
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Whites have always put one against another and now they have a dead man who was nothin' but a, he admitted it himself, Malcolm X, was a tramp or had white women sellin' their body for him, he was nothin' until the Honorable Elijah Mohammed made him great, made him great, taught him, even his name X come from Elijah.
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Dead is the travel of all our travels.
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A rose to the living is more Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead.
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What matters is entertainment. Eternity takes forever. The infinite expanse of time just does not know when to quit. The dead fear boredom the way mortals fear death.
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Life is just one crushing defeat after another until you just wish Flanders was dead.
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You know how funerals are not for the dead, they’re for the living? Bachelor parties are not for the groom, they’re for the uncommitted.
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We were always dead against the war.
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I make it a kind of pious rule to go to every funeral to which I am invited, both as I wish to pay a proper respect to the dead, unless their characters have been bad, and as I would wish to have the funeral of my own near relations or of myself well attended.
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I war not with the dead.
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He is dead in this world who has no belief in another.
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The dead have no ears, no answering machines that we know of, still we call.
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We seem wired to grieve with greenery. Allowing the dead to dissolve into the earth, to become part of the cycle of the seasons, has, for millennia, held the promise of cheating mortality.
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I smell varmint poontang. And the only good varmint poontang is dead varmint poontang, I think.
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Call no man happy until he is dead.
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In this autumn of 1919, in which I write, we are at the dead season of our fortunes.
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It was not noisy prejudice that caused the work of Mendel to lie dead for thirty years, but the sheer inability of contemporary opinion to distinguish between a new idea and nonsense.
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Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society and inspire the people with nobler motives and more heroic patriotism?
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I will say with Lorenzo de Medici that those who do not hope for another life are always dead to this one.
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In coming to terms with the newly dead, I seem to have agitated the spirits of the long dead. They were stirring uneasily in their graves, demanding to be mourned as I had not mourned them when they were buried. I was plunged into retroactive grief for my father, and could no longer deny, though I still tried, the loss I'd suffered at the death of my mother. ... Was it possible ... that one could mourn over losses that had occurred more than half a century earlier?
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But the longer I’m dead, the more I think the universe is a big blackboard with rules scrawled all over it in chalk and stardust and it’s just that the damn thing is flipped over and turned away from us so we can’t see anything but the erase, which death, hitting the floor.
