“Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End!”

Dead yesterdays and unborn tomorrows, why fret about it, if today be sweet.

The unbeliever knows his Koran best.

Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!

The thoughtful soul to solitude retires.

As far as you can avoid it, do not give grief to anyone. Never inflict your rage on another. If you hope for eternal rest, feel the pain yourself; but don’t hurt others.

So I be written in the Book of Love. I do not care about that Book Above. Erase my name, or write it as you will. So I be written in the Book of Love.

A hair divides what is false and true.

The secret must be kept from all non-people. The mystery must be hidden from all idiots.

Think not I dread to see my spirit fly, Through the dark gates of fell mortality; Death has no terrors when the life is true; ‘Tis living ill that makes us fear to die.

Drink! for you know not when you came, nor why; Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

Oh, the brave Music of a distant drum!

He who has one enemy shall meet him everywhere.

We are in truth but pieces on this chess board of life, which in the end we leave, only to drop one by one into the grave of nothingness.

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long, have done my credit in this World much wrong; have drowned my Glory in a shallow Cup, and sold my Reputation for a Song.

Drink wine. This is life eternal. This is all that youth will give you. It is the season for wine, roses and drunken friends. Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.

Living Life Tomorrow’s fate, though thou be wise, Thou canst not tell nor yet surmise; Pass, therefore, not today in vain, For it will never come again.

Until death it is all life.

It frightens me to realize that, if I had died before the age of fifty, I would have died a ‘Negro’ fraction.

Instead of working for the survival of the fittest, we should be working for the survival of the wittiest – then we can all die laughing.

See, my children, a person who is in a state of sin is always sad. Whatever he does, he is weary and disgusted with every thing; while he who is at peace with God is always happy, always joyous. . . Oh, beautiful life! Oh, beautiful death!

There never is absolute birth nor complete death, in the strict sense, consisting in the separation of the soul from the body. What we call births are developments and growths, while what we call deaths are envelopments and diminutions.

A recluse without books and ink is already in life a dead man.

The counterfeit innovator is wildly self-confident. The real one is scared to death.

Folks, I’m telling you, birthing is hard and dying is mean- so get yourself a little loving in between.