欧宝娱乐

“We're going to meet a lot of lonely people in the next week and the next month and the next year. And when they ask us what we're doing, you can say, We're remembering. That's where we'll win out in the long run. And someday we'll remember so much that we'll build the biggest goddamn steamshovel in history and dig the biggest grave of all time and shove war in it and cover it up.”
― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

“There,鈥� she said softly. 鈥淣ow he could be sleeping.”
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

“Mist to mist, drops to drops. For water thou art, and unto water shalt thou return.”
― Kamand Kojouri

“When people die they are sometimes put into coffins, which means that they don't mix with the earth for a very long time until the wood of the coffin rots.

But Mother was cremated. This means that she was put into a coffin and burned and ground up and turned into ash and smoke. I do not know what happens to the ash and I couldn't ask at the creamatorium because I didn't go to the funeral. But the smoke goes out of the chimney and into the air and sometimes I look up and I think that there are molecules of Mother up there, or in clouds over Africa or the Antarctic, or coming down as rain in the rain forests in Brazil, or snow somewhere.”
― Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time

“Elaborate burial customs are a sure sign of decadence.”
― J.G. Ballard, The Complete Short Stories

“O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes;
Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching Earth;
Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth
With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.
She hath no questions, she hath no replies.”
― Jeffrey Eugenides, The Virgin Suicides

“The more death, the more birth. People are entering, others are exiting. The cry of a baby, the mourning of others. When others cry, the other are laughing and making merry. The world is mingled with sadness, joy, happiness, anger, wealth, poverty, etc.”
― Michael Bassey Johnson

“If I were to believe in God enough to call him a murderer, then I might also believe enough that he, as a spirit, exists beyond death; and therefore only he could do it righteously. For the physical being kills a man and hatefully sends him away, whereas God, the spiritual being, kills a man and lovingly draws him nigh.”
― Criss Jami, Healology

“I remember that day in early May after Le Vesconte's and Private Pilkington's brief joint burial service, one of the men suggested that we name the small spur of land where they were buried "Le Vesconte Point," but Captain Crozier vetoed that idea, saying that if we named every place where one of us might end up buried after the dead person there, we'd run out of land before we ran out of names.”
― Dan Simmons, The Terror

“Pa said, "Won't you say a few words? Ain't none of our folks ever been buried without a few words."
Connie led Rose of Sharon to the graveside, she reluctant. "You got to," Connie said. "It ain't decent not to. It'll jus' be a little.
The firelight fell on the grouped people, showing their faces and their eyes, dwindling on their dark clothes.All the hats were off now. The light danced, jerking over the people.
Casy said, It'll be a short one." He bowed his head, and the others followed his lead. Casy said solemnly, "This here ol' man jus' lived a life an' just died out of it. I don't know whether he was good or bad, but that don't matter much. He was alive, an' that's what matters. An' now his dead, an' that don't matter. Heard a fella tell a poem one time, an' he says 'All that lives is holy.' Got to thinkin', an' purty soon it means more than the words says. An' I woundn' pray for a ol' fella that's dead. He's awright. He got a job to do, but it's all laid out for'im an' there's on'y one way to do it. But us, we got a job to do, an' they's a thousan' ways, an' we don' know which one to take. An' if I was to pray, it'd be for the folks that don' know which way to turn. Grampa here, he got the easy straight. An' now cover 'im up and let'im get to his work." He raised his head.”
― John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath

“THE BARROW

In this high field strewn with stones
I walk by a green mound,
Its edges sheared by the plough.
Crumbs of animal bone
Lie smashed and scattered round
Under the clover leaves
And slivers of flint seem to grow
Like white leaves among green.
In the wind, the chestnut heaves
Where a man's grave has been.

Whatever the barrow held
Once, has been taken away:
A hollow of nettles and dock
Lies at the centre, filled
With rain from a sky so grey
It reflects nothing at all.
I poke in the crumbled rock
For something they left behind
But after that funeral
There is nothing at all to find.

On the map in front of me
The gothic letters pick out
Dozens of tombs like this,
Breached, plundered, left empty,
No fragments littered about
Of a dead and buried race
In the margins of histories.
No fragments: these splintered bones
Construct no human face,
These stones are simply stones.

In museums their urns lie
Behind glass, and their shaped flints
Are labelled like butterflies.
All that they did was die,
And all that has happened since
Means nothing to this place.
Above long clouds, the skies
Turn to a brilliant red
And show in the water's face
One living, and not these dead."

鈥� Anthony Thwaite, from The Owl In The Tree”
― Anthony Thwaite

“Whilst the wolflets bayed,
A grave was made,
And then with the strokes of a silver spade,
It was filled to make a mound.
And for two cold days and three long nights,
The father tended that holy plot;
And stayed by where his wife was laid, In the grave within the ground.”
― Roman Payne, Cities & Countries

“A sematary," I say. "A what?" Viola says, looking round at all the square stones marking out their graves. Must be a hundred, maybe two, in orderly rows and well-kept grass. Settler life is hard and it's short and lotsa New World people have lost the battle.

"It's a place for burying dead folk," I say.

Her eyes widen. "A place for doing what?"

"Don't people die in space?" I ask.

"Yeah," she says. "But we burn them. We don't put them in holes." She crosses her arms around herself, mouth and forehead frowning, peering around at the graves. "How can this be sanitary?”
― Patrick Ness, The Knife of Never Letting Go

“The face of the dead man was concealed, of course, our customs not being those of the south, where corpses are carried to the grave in open coffins, that they might 鈥� one last time before slipping into the pit 鈥� be warmed by the light of the sun.”
― Jan Neruda, Prague Tales

“The sands bury everyone, with or without our help.”
― H.S. Crow

“. "Morgant?" Taran asked, turning a puzzled glance to Gwydion. "How can there be honor for such a man?"

"It is easy to judge evil unmixed," replied Gwydion. "But, alas, in most of us good and bad are closely woven as the threads on a loom; greater wisdom than mine is needed for the judging. King Morgant served the Sons of Don long and well. Until the thirst for power parched his throat, he was a fearless and noble lord. In battle he saved my life more than once. These things are part of him and cannot be put aside or forgotten. And so shall I honor Morgant, for what he used to be, and Ellidyr Prince of Pen-Llarcau for what he became".”
― Lloyd Alexander, The Black Cauldron

“No! no! My engagement is with no bride--the worms! the worms expect me! I am a dead man--I have been slain by robbers--my body lies at Wurtzburg--at midnight I am to be buried--the grave is waiting for me--I must keep my appointment!”
― Washington Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Other Stories

“EMBALM, v.i. To cheat vegetation by locking up the gases upon which it feeds. By embalming their dead and thereby deranging the natural balance between animal and vegetable life, the Egyptians made their once fertile and populous country barren and incapable of supporting more than a meagre crew. The modern metallic burial casket is a step in the same direction, and many a dead man who ought now to be ornamenting his neighbour's lawn as a tree, or enriching his table as a bunch of radishes, is doomed to a long inutility. We shall get him after awhile if we are spared, but in the meantime, the violet and rose are languishing for a nibble at his gluteus maximus.”
― Ambrose Bierce, The Unabridged Devil's Dictionary

“There is no antidote against the opium of time, which temporally considereth all things: our fathers find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors. Gravestones tell truth scarce forty years. Generations pass while some trees stand, and old families last not three oaks.”
― Thomas Browne

“Anyway, they took her body to McBurney's Funeral Home in Motley. They'll be planting her tomorrow.”
― Peter Hedges, What's Eating Gilbert Grape

“Be buried quick with her, and so will I.”
― William Shakespeare, Hamlet

“Andrei rested on a bench directly in front of a grave that belonged to: 'A father, hard worker, and beloved friend.' He leaned back, resting in the cemetery, and with each second, his desire to know more about this man

'Yeah, he鈥檚 a father, hard worker, and beloved friend. Weren鈥檛 we all at some point? What鈥檚 his kink? The worst thing he鈥檚 done to a person? The greatest thing he鈥檚 good at?' he thought. That鈥檚 what Andrei wanted to know. Not titles the man himself would disapprove of. What good was a proper impression in a cemetery filled with thousands of proper impressions? One must be indecent. So Andrei closed his eyes and imagined the father who worked hard and was a beloved friend. Maybe his kink was that he needed to do it in public鈥攊n the restroom after a date or at church during mass. Maybe the worst thing he had ever done was work so hard for his family that he never once saw them. Maybe the best thing he was good at was giving gifts to his friends. Yes, that鈥檚 it. He never gave money or handed them gift cards, but instead gave his brothers exactly what filled them the most. One year, he gave a notebook to his buddy John with the same line written over and over in painful cursive. The line said: 'Happy Birthday, you get thirteen hours of my life' and repeated until you could see the traces of hand cramps squiggling for life on the forty-second page.

'What a good man,' imagined Andrei. 'Hell of a mate.”
― Karl Kristian Flores, A Happy Ghost

“We cannot hope to live so long in our names, as some have done in their persons, one face of Janus holds no proportion unto the other. 鈥橳is too late to be ambitious. The great mutations of the world are acted, or time may be too short for our designes...We whose generations are ordained in this setting part of time, are providentially taken off from such imaginations.”
― Thomas Browne, Religio Medici / Urne-Buriall

“Clemo, Nonini, Jua Cali wakianzisha Genge, ilishika but hawakuwa na clear plan. Now it's dead and burried with Mejja as the only survivor mwenye hata aliachana na Genge anafanya Kalpop sasa.”
― DON SANTO

“To understand who a person really was, what his or her life really meant, the speaker for the dead would have to explain their self-story鈥� what they meant to do, what they actually did, what they regretted, what they rejoiced in. That's the story that we never know, the story that we never can know鈥攁nd yet, at the time of death, it's the only story truly worth telling.”
― Orson Scott Card, Speaker for the Dead

“When did we stop burying those we love with our own hands?”
― Yuri Herrera, The Transmigration of Bodies

“There is a deep sorrow in laying to rest a version of yourself that others destroyed, but the pain of burying the one you killed yourself is unbearable”
― Shahid Hussain Raja

“The hour's bell tolls
like the weight of snow,
burying the world of sight.
Eternal time that passes,
forsaking heart's song.”
― Susan L. Marshall, Wild Soul: Contemporary Classical Winter Poetry

“This is the place. This has always been the place.

You were always walking towards this moment.

We were always waiting for you here.


The soil will swallow you.

The roots will tear at you.

Foxes and flies will bear you away.


There鈥檚 nothing left to hold on to.

There鈥檚 nowhere left to go.

There鈥檚 no need to worry any more.”
― Jon Ware

“Although the Old Bering Sea cultures generally did not bother with burials, Thule whalers were interred in whalebone graves: whale mandibles and scapulae were used to frame the corpse, perhaps to protect the whaler on his journey after death, a funereal swallow motif.”
― Joe Roman, Whale