One day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second.
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The only sin is the sin of being born
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No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.
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The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.
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Incontinent the void. The zenith. Evening again. When not night it will be evening. Death again of deathless day. On one hand embers. On the other ash...
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I shall soon be quite dead at last in spite of all.
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And on the threshold of being no more I succeed in being another.
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They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
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To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
