The distinctions of fine art bore me to death.

As a kid, all I thought about was death.

When theater becomes a soothing middle-class thing, when it's packaged as the Night Out, then that's the death of it.

Living is a sickness to which sleep provides relief every sixteen hours. It's a palliative. The remedy is death.

Monarchs ought to put to death the authors and instigators of war, as their sworn enemies and as dangers to their states.

Death is a delightful hiding place for weary men.

The enemy fought with savage fury, and met death with all its horrors, without shrinking or complaining: not one asked to be spared, but fought as long as they could stand or sit.

I know I'm drinking myself to a slow death, but then I'm in no hurry.

For days after death hair and fingernails continue to grow, but phone calls taper off.

It is a horrible fact that we can read in the daily paper, without interrupting our breakfast, numerical reckonings of death and destruction that ought to break our hearts or scare us out of our wits.