#death

You may have the dark and cold street life, ruled by the lessor light of the moon. During this time I restore my temple, and later awake to greet the awesome radiance of the sun-star. ↗

— T.F. Hodge

#cold #dark #life #light #moon

A live body is not only one which never gets old, but one that can to some extent repair itself. In the same way, a Christian is not a man who never goes wrong, but a man who is enabled to repent and pick himself up and begin over again after each stumble - because the Christ-life is inside him, repairing him all the time, enabling him to repeat the kind of voulentary death Christ Himself carried out. ↗

— C. S. Lewis

#death

Once when I was a little child of six or so, I watched a spider spinning its web in a corner of the house. Before the spider had even finished its job, a mosquito flew right into the web and was trapped there. The spider didn't pay it any attention at first, but went on with what it was doing; only when it was finished did it creep over on its pointy toes and sting that poor mosquito to death. As I sat there on that wooden floor and watched Hatsumomo come reaching for me with her delicate fingers, I knew I was trapped in a web she had spun for me. ↗

— Arthur Golden

#nature #death

When clouds will become heavier than the land in us led our entire life by the steps of our Destiny, we will understand that not their moments’ rain has darkened the sun of our life, but the failure to be ourselves. ↗

— Sorin Cerin

#death

Loneliness is the standard that separates life from death. ↗

— Sorin Cerin

#life #loneliness #death

But death's acquisitive instincts will win. ↗

— Harold Brodkey

#instincts #will #win

It is death that goes down to the center of the earth, the great burial church the earth is, and then to the curved ends of the universe, as light is said to do. ↗

— Harold Brodkey

#center #church #curved #death #down

In greatness, life and death merge. ↗

— Dejan Stojanovic

#dejan-stojanovic #greatness #life #literature #literature-quotes

His brow is seamed with line and scar; His cheek is red and dark as wine; The fires as of a Northern star Beneath his cap of sable shine. His right hand, bared of leathern glove, Hangs open like an iron gin, You stoop to see his pulses move, To hear the blood sweep out and in. He looks some king, so solitary In earnest thought he seems to stand, As if across a lonely sea He gazed impatient of the land. Out of the noisy centuries The foolish and the fearful fade; Yet burn unquenched these warrior eyes, Time hath not dimmed, nor death dismayed. ↗

— Walter de La Mare

#warrior #death

Mostly I couldn't bear... the paltry notion that memory was all that eternal life really meant, and I spent too much time wondering where people got the fortitude or delusion to keep on moving past the static dead. ↗

— Gail Caldwell

#memory #death