Death looses its sting when the epitaph drafted for the tombstone of the departed even by those with whom he crossed swords in his lifetime is filled with encomiums.

Then on your tombstone, where you only get a little bit of space to sum up your life, some wax-faced creep chisels a set of meaningless numbers instead of poetry or a secret love or the name of your favorite candy.

In the end, all you get is a few words.

There is something inherently wrong in any society that allows a felon to sit among men of honour.

Optimists are those picturesquely depicted as persons who, when presented with a glass that is half filled with water, describe it as ‘half full’. In other words, the optimist believes that there is ALWAYS light at the end of the tunnel or, put differently, that a silver lining lurks behind every dark cloud.

I never understood why when you died, you didn't just vanish, everything should just keep going on the way it was only you just wouldn't be there. I always thought I'd like my own tombstone to be blank. No epitaph, and no name. Well, actually, I'd like it to say 'figment'.

Here lies Dobby, a free elf.