…everything we do is decent when the mind begins to forget — the design of life; and good when we are forgotten — the design of death.

We are adhering to life now with our last muscle - the heart.

I looked over at Augustus Waters, who looked back at me. You could almost see through his eyes they were so blue. "There will come a time," I said, "when all of us are dead. All of us. There will come a time when there are no human beings remaining to remember that anyone ever existed for that our species ever did anything. There will be no one left to remember Aristotle or Cleopatra, let alone you.

Much as oblivion is the death of sorrow
So death is life's forgetfulness

To love without criticism is to be betrayed.

This head has risen above its hair in a moment of abandon known only to men who have drawn their feet out of their boots to walk awhile in the corridors of the mind