Quotes to inspire and reflect

Pity is for the living, envy is for the dead.

Oh Death where is thy sting! It has none. But life has.

You will die not because you're ill, but because ' you’re alive.

Death's stamp gives value to the coin of life; making it possible to buy with life what is truly precious.

The whole motley confusion of acts, omissions, regrets and hopes which is the life of each one of us finds in death, not meaning or explanation, but an end.

One must take all one’s life to learn how to live, and, what will perhaps make you winder more, one must take all one’s life to learn how to die.

One wants to live, of course, indeed one only stays alive by virtue of the fear of death.

Long life, and short, are by death made all one; for there is no long, nor short, to things that are no more.

In the attempt to defeat death man has been inevitably obliged to defeat life, for the two are inextricably related. Life moves on to death, and to deny one is to deny the other.

The most rational cure after all for the inordinate fear of death is to set a just value on life.

Grieve not; though the journey of life be bitter, and the end unseen, there is no road which does not lead to an end.

Dying is as natural as living.

The whole life of instinct serves the one end of bringing about death.

A good life fears not life nor death.

Death is what men want when the anguish of living / is more than they can bear.

It is better that we live ever so / Miserably than die in glory.

I think that the dying pray at the last not “please,” but “thank you,” as a guest thanks his host at the door.

All our life is but a going out to the place of execution, to death.

If a man know not life which he hath seen, how shall he know death, which he hath not seen?

Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion.

The golden years of my life are slipping by on stealthy feet at nightfall; there is a footprint in the dark, a bell strikes twelve, and the flying year is gone.

As I get older, my childhood self becomes more accessible to me, but selectively, in images as stylized and suspect as moments remembered from a novel read years ago.

For the complete life, the perfect pattern includes old age as well as youth and maturity.

There are but three events which concern men: birth, life, and death. They are unconscious of their birth, they suffer when they die, and they neglect to live.

Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is a question of nerves, and fibers, and slowly built-up cells in which thought hides itself and passion has its dreams.

Every stage of human life, except the last, is marked out by certain and defined limits; old age alone has no precise and determinate boundary.

Life has a way of overgrowing its achievements as well as its ruins.

Whoever is not in his coffin and the dark grave let him know he has enough.

What is a great life if not a youthful idea executed by the man of mature years?

Life is the saddest thing there is, next to death.

Life is given to us, we earn it by giving it.

Children, who play life, discern its true law and relations more clearly than men, who fail to live it worthily, but who think that they are wiser by experience, that is, by failure.

Life, like a child, laughs, shaking its rattle of death as it runs.

Life is a tragedy wherein we sit as spectators for a while and then act our part in it.

Everyday life is a stimulating mixture of order and haphazardly. The sun rises and sets on schedule but the wind bloweth where it listeth.

As wise women and men in every culture tell us: The art of life is not controlling what happens to us, but using what happens to us.

What most counts is not to live, but to live aright.

You cannot know a man’s life before the man / has died, then only can you call it good or bad.

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.

Nothing is so false as human life, nothing so treacherous. God knows no one would have accepted it as a gift, if it had not been given without our knowledge.

It is more fitting for a man to laugh at life than to lament over it.

I he scenes of our life are like pictures done in rough mosaic. Looked at close, they produce no effect. There is nothing beautiful to be found in them, unless you stand some distance off.

It is only in the microscope that our life looks so big. It is an indivisible point, drawn out and magnified by the powerful lenses of Time and Space.

Life is a task to be done. It is a fine thing to say defunctus est; it means that the man has done his task.

Real life is, to most men, a long second-best, a perpetual compromise between the ideal and the possible.

It is the acme of life to understand life.

Fate loves to invent patterns and designs. Its difficulty lies in complexity. But life itself is difficult

From the first moment of life, men ought to begin learning to deserve to live.