欧宝娱乐

“When you're dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.”
― J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

“I am a cemetery by the moon unblessed.”
― Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen

“For as much as I hate the cemetery, I鈥檝e been grateful it鈥檚 here, too. I miss my wife. It鈥檚 easier to miss her at a cemetery, where she鈥檚 never been anything but dead, than to miss her in all the places where she was alive.”
― John Scalzi, Old Man's War

“The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.”
― Percy Bysshe Shelley, Adonais

“Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth,
Let's choose executors and talk of wills”
― William Shakespeare, Richard II

“Within its gates I heard the sound
Of winds in cypress caverns caught
Of huddling tress that moaned, and sought
To whisper what their roots had found.
(鈥淎 Dream of Fear鈥�)”
― George Sterling, The Thirst of Satan: Poems of Fantasy and Terror

“The first thing you notice about New Orleans are the burying grounds - the cemeteries - and they're a cold proposition, one of the best things there are here. Going by, you try to be as quiet as possible, better to let them sleep. Greek, Roman, sepulchres- palatial mausoleums made to order, phantomesque, signs and symbols of hidden decay - ghosts of women and men who have sinned and who've died and are now living in tombs. The past doesn't pass away so quickly here.
You could be dead for a long time”
― Bob Dylan

“One grave in every graveyard belongs to the ghouls. Wander any graveyard long enough and you will find it - water stained and bulging, with cracked or broken stone, scraggly grass or rank weeds about it, and a feeling, when you reach it, of abandonment. It may be colder than the other gravestones, too, and the name on the stone is all too often impossible to read. If there is a statue on the grave it will be headless or so scabbed with fungus and lichens as to look like fungus itself. If one grave in a graveyard looks like a target for petty vandals, that is the ghoul-gate. If the grave wants to make you be somewhere else, that is the ghoul-gate.”
― Neil Gaiman, The Graveyard Book

“I got the sexton, who was digging Linton鈥檚 grave, to remove the earth off her coffin lid, and I opened it. I thought, once, I would have stayed there, when I saw her face again鈥攊t is hers yet鈥攈e had hard work to stir me; but he said it would change, if the air blew on it...”
― Emily Bront毛, Wuthering Heights

“The moon fled eastward like a frightened dove, while the stars changed their places in the heavens, like a disbanding army.

'Where are we?' asked Gil Gil.

'In France,' responded the Angel of Death. 'We have now traversed a large portion of the two bellicose nations which waged so sanguinary a war with each other at the beginning of the present century. We have seen the theater of the War of Succession. Conquered and conquerors both lie sleeping at this instant. My apprentice, Sleep, rules over the heroes who did not perish then, in battle, or afterward of sickness or of
old age. I do not understand why it is that below on earth all men are not friends? The identity of your misfortunes and your weaknesses, the need you have of each other, the shortness of your life, the spectacle of the grandeur of other worlds, and the comparison between them and your littleness, all this should combine to unite you in brotherhood, like the passengers of a vessel threatened with shipwreck. There, there is neither love, nor hate, nor ambition, no one is debtor or creditor, no one is great or little, no one is handsome or ugly, no one is happy or unfortunate. The same danger surrounds all and my presence makes all equal. Well, then, what is the earth, seen from this height, but a ship which is foundering, a city delivered up to an epidemic or a conflagration?'

'What are those ignes fatui which I can see shining in certain places on the terrestrial globe, ever since the moon veiled her light?' asked the young man.

'They are cemeteries. We are now above Paris. Side by side with every city, every town, every village of the living there is always a city, a town, or a village of the dead, as the shadow is always beside the body. Geography, then, is of two kinds, although mortals only speak of the kind which is agreeable to them. A map of all the cemeteries which there are on the earth would be sufficient indication of the political geography of your world. You would miscalculate, however, in regard to the population; the dead cities are much more densely populated than the living; in the latter there are hardly three generations at one time, while, in the former, hundreds of generations are often crowded together. As for the lights you see shining, they are phosphorescent gleams from dead bodies, or rather they are the expiring gleams of thousands of vanished lives; they are the twilight glow of love, ambition, anger, genius, mercy; they are, in short, the last glow of a dying light, of the individuality which is disappearing, of the being yielding back his elements to mother earth. They are - and now it is that I have found the true word - the foam made by the river when it mingles its waters with those of the ocean.' The Angel of Death paused. ("The Friend of Death")”
― Pedro Antonio de Alarc贸n, Ghostly By Gaslight

“There's nothing here. Nothing at all.'

Marina gave me a look that I could not fathom.

'You're wrong,' she said. 'The memories of hundreds of people lie here. Their lives, their feelings, their expectations, their absence, the dreams that never came true for them, the disappointments, the deceptions and the unrequited loves that poisoned their existence... All that is here, trapped for ever.”
― Carlos Ruiz Zaf贸n, Marina

“I stopped in St. Bernadette's Cemetery one of my favorite places... The trunks of six giant oaks rise like columns supporting a ceiling formed by their interlocking crowns. In the quiet space below, is laid out an aisle similar to those in any library. The gravestones are like rows of books bearing the names of those whose names have been blotted from the pages of life; who have been forgotten elsewhere but are remembered here.”
― Dean Koontz, Fear Nothing

“Then Mount Jerome for the protestants. Funerals all over the world everywhere every minute.
Shovelling them under by the cartload doublequick.
Thousands every hour. Too many in the world.”
― James Joyce, Ulysses

“It's like a memorial to Atlantis or Lyonesse: these are the stone buoys that mark a drowned world.”
― Christopher Hitchens, Hitch 22: A Memoir

“Tombstones covered the dale, the smooth marble surfaces bright. She had spent days here as a teenager, though not out of any awareness of mortality. Like every adolescent, she intended to live forever.”
― Thomm Quackenbush, We Shadows

“The twin guardian angels whose eyes and hands and wings had focused protective attention on the souls that lay there no longer faced each other. They stared blindly into a random middle distance. The scroll they held between them proclaiming eternal resurrection was broken in two.”
― Clare Morgan, A Book for All and None

“Not that there seems to be any appropriate place to bury someone, but these municipal cemeteries, or any cemetery at all for that matter, like the ones by the highway, or the ones in the middle of town, with all these bodies with their corresponding rocks - oh it's just too primitive and vulgar, isn't it? The hole, and the box, and the rock on the grass? And we glamorize this process, feel it fitting and dramatic, austerely beautiful, standing there by the hole as we lower the box. It's incredible. Barbaric and base.”
― Dave Eggers, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

“There were dozens of stones of all sizes in the small meadow. Tall stones, bigger than either of the boys, and small ones, just the right size for sitting on. There were some broken stones. The Runt knew what sort of place this was, but it did not scare him. It was a loved place.”
― Neil Gaiman, M Is for Magic

“The best examples for lifetime imprisonment is the God in the temple and the dead body in the cemetery”
― P.S. Jagadeesh Kumar

“We are like a mockery to the dead-so young and so alive, our blood beating hot and excited in our veins. If the roles were reversed and it were me who lay beneath the earth, beneath this thoughtless revelry, I would want to grab hold of the revelers; pull them by the ankles; such the breath from their mouths, the blood from their veins; steal their young bodies, young heart, young dreams for myself”
― Erica Waters, All That Consumes Us

“Siempre las flores vigilaron la muerte, porque siempre los hombres incomprensiblemente supimos que su existir dormido y gracioso es el que mejor puede acompa帽ar a los que murieron sin ofenderlos con soberbia de vida, sin ser m谩s vida que ellos.”
― Jorge Luis Borges, Cuaderno San Mart铆n

“You think your life is unfurling in a certain way, and you let yourself grow happy about it, a smile rising at the slightest thing. A boy in short pants eating a pastelito makes you grin like a lunatic at the vision of your own hoped鈥恌or children, their dark shiny heads rising, year by year, from the Cuban earth, your wife towering behind them, kind and wise. Then you find yourself in a midnight cemetery guarding your mustache from the covetous ghost of an American woman you once loved. Who wouldn鈥檛 laugh?”
― Pascha Sotolongo, The Only Sound Is the Wind: Stories

“The stylus of time was stricken. The miners were dead. The mines had closed, after the veins went dry of silver. The miners were below the ground in Lone Hill Cemetery.

鈥� Ivy. ( told at Telluride Ski Area )”
― Stephen Deck, Land of the Story Tellers: 24 Stories and 7 Poems

“Omega Elegeia by Stewart Stafford

This master of words hath no more,
The hand that penned them stilled,
What you read is an epitaph,
The remnant body of work willed.

Honour and cherish this legacy,
As his flesh and bone are dust,
His poetic flame snuffed hither,
His spirit flown, in that, we trust.

His face was familiar to many,
But known to a precious few,
Now 'tis hidden forevermore,
Covertly in plain sight, anew.

漏 Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“At the side of every living city, town, or hamlet, there is always a dead city or town, as the shadow is always beside the body. Geography, therefore, is always double, although you speak only of that which appears most agreeable. To make a map of all the cemeteries upon earth would suffice to explain the political geography of thy world.”
― Pedro Antonio de Alarc贸n, The Strange Friend of Tito Gil

“[First Line} It鈥檚 quiet here. But then again, it鈥檚 supposed to be quiet.”
― Alex Diaz-Granados, Reunion: A Story: A Novella

“What happened in the cemetery causes us pain, not her. You understand that, don鈥檛 you?”
― Nick Medina, Indian Burial Ground

“The whole life of human beings consists of constantly dealing with something or many things in order to forget the great fear and chill that the cemetery and death create in our consciousness!”
― Mehmet Murat ildan

“Are you afraid of cemeteries? Yes, you can be! But you know, I think the cemetery is also afraid of you, because you are life, you are not like death, which has no other ability than to destroy! You have creative powers, you have the potential to carry life to eternity, so the cemetery is also afraid of you! You whistle in fear when you visit it, but it whistles silently in fear when you come!”
― Mehmet Murat ildan

“The cemetery of regret is the place where the future is buried before it can be born.”
― Craig D. Lounsbrough