Although the time of death is approaching me, I am not afraid of dying and going to Hell or (what would be considerably worse) going to the popularized version of Heaven. I expect death to be nothingness and, for removing me from all possible fears of death, I am thankful to atheism.

Good company robs even death of some of its terrors.

I write for the same reason I breathe—because if I didn't, I would die.

I’m gradually managing to cram my mind more and more full of things. I’ve got this beautiful mind and it’s going to die, and it’ll all be gone. And then I say, not in my case. Every idea I’ve ever had I’ve written down, and it’s all there on paper. And I won’t be gone; it’ll be there.

If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn’t brood. I’d type a little faster.

It is tempting to wonder if our present universe, large as it is and complex though it seems, might not be merely the result of a very slight random increase in order over a very small portion of an unbelievably colossal universe which is virtually entirely in heat-death. Perhaps we are merely sliding down a gentle ripple that has been set up, accidently and very temporarily, in a quiet pond, and it is only the limitation of our own infinitesimal range of viewpoint in space and time that makes it seem to ourselves that we are hurtling down a cosmic waterfall of increasing entropy, a waterfall of colossal size and duration.

Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome.

Life would be unbearable if death were not worse yet.

Since we all must die, what better can we ask for than a quick and sudden death?

There is no belief, however foolish, that will not gather its faithful adherents who will defend it to the death.

To want peace and quiet above all else is to want death.