Our life is made by the death of others.

In life, we weep at the thought of death. In death, perhaps we weep at the thought of life.

You live you die and death not ends it.

Who knows if to live is to be dead, and to be dead, to live? And we really, it may be, are dead; in fact I once heard sages say that we are now dead, and the body is our tomb.

Just when the question of how to live had become clearer to him, a new insoluble problem presented itself - Death.

I wouldn't mind dying in a plane crash. It'd be a good way to go. I don't want to die in my sleep, or of old age, or OD... I want to feel what it's like. I want to taste it, hear it, smell it. Death is only going to happen to you once; I don't want to miss it.