Death doesn’t exist. It never did, it never will. But we’ve drawn so many pictures of it, so many years, trying to pin it down, comprehend it, we’ve got to thinking of it as an entity, strangely alive and greedy. All it is, however, is a stopped watch, a loss, an end, a darkness. Nothing.
— Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes (via fuckyeahexistentialism)
She was breathing deeply, she forgot the cold, the weight of beings, the insane or static life, the long anguish of living or dying. After so many years running from fear, fleeing crazily, uselessly, she was finally coming to a halt. At the same time she seemed to be recovering her roots, and the sap rose anew in her body, which was no longer trembling. Pressing her whole belly against the parapet, leaning toward the wheeling sky, she was only waiting for her pounding heart to settle down, and for the silence to form in her.
— Albert Camus
Find what you love and let it kill you.
Let it drain you of your all.
Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness.
Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.
For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.
— Charles Bukowski (via hellanne)
Afraid of being exposed, dying to be seen — there’s a dilemma for you.
— Philip Roth, The Human Stain (via larmoyante)
You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light.
— Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
She was like the wilted flowers. Beautiful, yet slowly dying.
— Jean (via vahlium)
It is difficult to put into words what I suffered- the longing that seemed to be tearing my heart by the roots, the dreadful sense of being alone in the universe, the agonies that thrilled through me as if the blood were running ice- cold in my veins, the disgust with living, the impossibility of dying”.
— Hector Berlioz, French Composer
People have their own reasons for dying. It might look simple, but it never is. It’s just like a rock. What’s above ground is only a small part of it. But if you start pulling, it keeps coming and coming. The human mind dwells deep in darkness. Only the person himself knows the real reason, and maybe not even then.
— Haruki Murakami (via durianquotes)
I was wishing I was invisible. Outside, the leaves were falling to the ground, and I was infinitely sad, sad down to my bones. I was sad for the leaves that were dying, and sad for myself, for something I had lost.
— Sharon Creech (Walk Two Moons)