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.

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.

Strength is life, Weakness is death.

The whole life is a succession of dreams. My ambition is to be a conscious dreamer, that is all.