Our life is made by the death of others.

Death is close enough at hand so we do not need to be afraid of life.

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.

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.

While I thought that I was learning how to live, I have been learning how to die.

Some die too young, some die too old; the precept sounds strange, but die at the right age.