Category Archives: death

 Mezzo Cammin*

Half of my life is gone, and I have let
The years slip from me and have not fulfilled
The aspirations of my youth, to build
Some tower of stone with lofty parapet.
Not indolence, nor pleasure not the fret
Of restless passions that would not be stilled,
But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;
Though, half-way up the hill, I see the Past
Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights, —
A city in the twilight dim and vast,
With smoking roffs, soft bells, and gleaming lights, —
And hear above me on the autumnal blast
The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights.

– Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

* Mezzo Camin, halfway up the road. [Italian] Dante uses this phrase in Divine Commedia to signify the middle of his life, a period of lost ideals, moral disillusionment, and wasted efforts.

“Oh how wrong we were to think that immortality meant never dying…”

– My Chemical Romance, “Our Lady of Sorrows”

Perhaps they are not stars in the sky but rather openings where our loved ones shine down to let us know they are happy.

– Inuit Legend

 

Tight-rope walkers, fire-eaters, peasants, princes – they’re all the same, flesh and blood and a heart that knows it will stop beating one day.

– Cornelia Funke, Inkheart

“Death is all silence. Even poets have no words once they have passed the door Death closes behind us.”  – Fenoglio, Inkspell by Cornelia Funke

Words. His whole life seemed to be woven from words. His life, and his death, too.
– Cornelia Funke, Inkspell

 

“It’s the dead. They bring bad dreams,” Farid always said. “They whisper terrible things to you, and then lie on your breast to feel your racing heart. It makes them feel alive again!”
– Farid, Inkspell by Cornelia Funke

So they both sat with him in the depths of Mount Adder, as if they had come to the end of all stories. Without a single word still left to say.
– Cornelia Funke, Inkspell

 

It was a dream, one of the dreams she had almost every night. Dreams in which she saw his face so clearly that she touched it in her sleep, and next day her fingers still remembered his skin. Even when he put his arms around her, carefully, as if he wasn’t sure whether he had forgotten how to hold her, she didn’t move – because her hands did not believe they would really feel him, her arms did not believe they could hold him again. But her eyes could see him. Her ears heard him breathing. Her skin felt his, as warm as if the fire were inside him, after he had been so terribly cold.
– Cornelia Funke, Inspell

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