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“Have a look around, my pretty, we are surrounded by Death in all forms â€� just the two of us are still alive â€�”
― Simona Panova, Nightmarish Sacrifice

“Cemeteries are full of unfulfilled dreams... countless echoes of 'could have' and 'should have'â€� countless books unwrittenâ€� countless songs unsung... I want to live my life in such a way that when my body is laid to rest, it will be a well needed rest from a life well lived, a song well sung, a book well written, opportunities well explored, and a love well expressed.”
― Steve Maraboli, Unapologetically You: Reflections on Life and the Human Experience

“I do not believe in the government of the lash, if any one of you ever expects to whip your children again, I want you to have a photograph taken of yourself when you are in the act, with your face red with vulgar anger, and the face of the little child, with eyes swimming in tears and the little chin dimpled with fear, like a piece of water struck by a sudden cold wind. Have the picture taken. If that little child should die, I cannot think of a sweeter way to spend an autumn afternoon than to go out to the cemetery, when the maples are clad in tender gold, and little scarlet runners are coming, like poems of regret, from the sad heart of the earth—and sit down upon the grave and look at that photograph, and think of the flesh now dust that you beat. I tell you it is wrong; it is no way to raise children! Make your home happy. Be honest with them. Divide fairly with them in everything.”
― Robert G. Ingersoll, The Liberty Of Man, Woman And Child

“The officeâ€� is a cemetery of dreams.”
― Mokokoma Mokhonoana

“Wherever you go in the next
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Be it sickroom, or prison,
or cemet’ry
Do not fear that your stay will be
²õ´Ç±ô¾±³Ù’r²â
Countless souls share your fate,
you’ll have company!”
― Roman Payne, The Basement Trains: A 21st Century Poem

“My ghost is the only soul who ever comes to cry on my grave... Only the skies cried sincerely on my funeral.”
― Simona Panova, Nightmarish Sacrifice

“And when my spirit wants no stimulus or nourishment save music, I know it is to be sought in cemeteries: the musicians hide in the tombs; from grave to grave flute trills, harp chords answer one another.”
― Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

“It is upon such stones that men attempt to permanently etch history so they will not exist in a vacuum; it is the final statement after a lifetime of scratching out divisions upon the ground, over ephemeral time itself, merely to give their short journeys meaning, to tell others “I was here â€� do not forget me, do not let my brief blast dissolve into nothingness.”
― Rob Bignell

“The graveyard was at the top of the hill. It looked over all of the town. The town was hills - hills that issued down in trickles and then creeks and then rivers of cobblestone into the town, to flood the town with rough and beautiful stone that had been polished into smooth flatness over the centuries. It was a pointed irony that the very best view of the town could be had from the cemetery hill, where high, thick walls surrounded a collection of tombstones like wedding cakes, frosted with white angels and iced with ribbons and scrolls, one against another, toppling, shining cold. It was like a cake confectioner's yard. Some tombs were big as beds. From here, on freezing evenings, you could look down at the candle-lit valley, hear dogs bark, sharp as tuning forks banged on a flat stone, see all the funeral processions coming up the hill in the dark, coffins balanced on shoulders.

("The Candy Skull")”
― Ray Bradbury

“Some of the more superstitious townsfolk even believed she was a witch. The fact that she had four dead husbands lined up in a neat row at the local Promise Land Cemetery was not an argument in her defense.”
― K. Martin Beckner, Chips of Red Paint

“Sometimes to escape the noise of haunting memories, you need your best friends hand in your own, to help erase the sound and fill you with a sense of peace, even if it’s temporary.”
― Andrea Michelle, Escape the Doubt

“The massive bronze gates were wide open now, too late. Inside, the cemetery had been turned into a grotesque place gleaming with high-powered searchlights, blue flashlight flares, winking pocket torches. Uniformed men were already swarming about. Red cigarette-embers showed oddly amidst the headstones here and there.

("The Street Of Jungle Death")”
― Cornell Woolrich, Vampire's Honeymoon

“The beauty of the twentieth century is the charm of the hospital, the grace of the cemetery, of consumption and emaciation. I admit that I have submitted to it all; worse, I have loved with all my heart.”
― Jean Lorrain, Monsieur de Phocas

“I shook with cold and fear, without being able to answer. After a lapse of some moments, I was again called. I made an effort to speak, and then felt the bandage which wrapped me from head to foot. It was my shroud. At last, I managed feebly to articulate, 'Who calls?'

'Tis I' said a voice.

'Who art thou?'

'I! I! I!' was the answer; and the voice grew weaker, as if it was lost in the distance; or as if it was but the icy rustle of the trees.

A third time my name sounded on my ears; but now it seemed to run from tree to tree, as if it whistled in each dead branch; so that the entire cemetery repeated it with a dull sound. Then I heard a noise of wings, as if my name, pronounced in the silence, had suddenly awakened a troop of nightbirds. My hands, as if by some mysterious power, sought my face. In silence I undid the shroud which bound me, and tried to see. It seemed as if I had awakened from a long sleep. I was cold.

I then recalled the dread fear which oppressed me, and the mournful images by which I was surrounded. The trees had no longer any leaves upon them, and seemed to stretch forth their bare branches like huge spectres! A single ray of moonlight which shone forth, showed me a long row of tombs, forming an horizon around me, and seeming like the steps which might lead to Heaven. All the vague voices of the night, which seemed to preside at my awakening, were full of terror. ("The Dead Man's Story")”
― Hain Friswell

“Hanno combattuto per la nostra libertà. Noi siamo ancora liberi, dunque loro sono ancora vivi.”
― Marco Strazzi, L'orologio con le ali

“In the beginning we start with roses. The king’s flower right? Only they wilt in less than a day, especially when exposed to the elements. But Carnations? Oh, what a beautiful flower. They come in every color. True, some are painted, but that doesn’t mean they are less beautiful, and they never wilt.”
― Ruth McLeod-Kearns, Carnations Never Wilt

“Cemeteries are full of unfulfilled dreams... countless echoes of 'could have' and 'should have'â€� Don’t choose to walk the well-worn path to regret.”
― Steve Maraboli, Unapologetically You: Reflections on Life and the Human Experience

“The harbour of influence is richer in the cemeteries where people are buried with their music on their tongues unsung. Don't leave your potentials untouched!”
― Israelmore Ayivor, Leaders' Watchwords

“Who chose burial monuments? Were the wishes of the deceased taken into consideration? It was a subject I'd never considered before.”
― Susan Hubbard, The Society of S

“I hate to say this, but I am still holding somewhat of a grudge at the people that could have come to the funeral but didn't, especially when they came up with some lame excuse how it was too sad or how they were afraid of cemeteries or whatever. No justification in the world could make up for you not being there when someone needs you. Period.”
― Silvia Corradin, Losing Alex: The Night I Held An Angel

“John Wesley’s own grave holds the bones of many other people, including at least five ministers. One can only imagine the bickering.”
― Jared Brock, A Year of Living Prayerfully

“Seeing that I would never manage to fall asleep, I arose, lit a candle, and after dressing went outside.

Beneath the dull glow of the winter moon the snow glowed like pale blue china. The sidewalks sparkled weakly beneath the rays of the flickering street lamps; the benumbed streets slumbered forlornly. I walked, passing one corner after the other, and suddenly found myself on the edge of town. Further, beyond the square, an endless expanse began to glisten with a somber silverness.

I stopped just before the gates. My intent gaze could distinguish nothing in the distant white expanse. Before me rose the imposing bank of the Volga like a gigantic snowdrift. So barren and uninviting was this deserted view resembling eternity that my heart contracted.

I turned to the right and approached quite close to the monastery enclosure. From behind the bronze gates, glimmered a dense net of crosses and gravestones. The ancient eyes of the church gazed forbiddingly down on me, and with an eerie feeling I thought of the monks sleeping at this moment in tomb-like cells together with corpses. Were any of them thinking of the hour of death on this night?

("Lamia")”
― Boris Sadovskoy, Silver Age of Russian Culture

“He’d seen a lot of bizarre items left at gravesides, like a carton of eggs, a pair of reading glasses, a bag of licorice, smooth stones, a spoon.”
― Sheri Webber, Dawn Rising

“I remember calling the council's cemetery department to ask about body decomposition in different soil types. Once they had verified that I was a novelist and not a sicko, they were extremely helpful.”
― Sara Sheridan

“Devareux also made mention of finding "angel hair" that melted when touched but was so radioactive as to break a Geiger counter, as well as having been shot with lasers coming from the graves in the Jewish Cemetery. As a lapsed Episcopalian, Jasmine might have been vague as to the details of Jewish burials, but felt confident no Goldstein on record had consented to laser turrets atop their dearly departed Uncle Morrie.”
― Thomm Quackenbush, Artificial Gods

“Breathing seemed harder in the cemetery, and selfish, somehow...”
― Sheri Webber