O Time, thou that consumest all things! O envious age, whereby all things are consumed!

Our hour is marked, and no one can claim a moment of life beyond what fate has predestined.

Our life is made by the death of others.

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

For one thing we may be grateful: this life is not eternal.

I cannot believe in the immortality of the soul. No, all this talk of an existence for us, as individuals, beyond the grave is wrong. It is born of our tenacity of life - our desire to go on living - our dread of coming to an end.