There’s no point in writing hopeless novels. We all know we’re going to die; what’s important is the kind of men and women we are in the face of this.

It seemed perfectly possible that, in spite of my certainty of my own genius, I might die of some illness, or perhaps even in a street accident, before I had ever glimpsed the meaning of life. My moods of happiness and self-confidence convinced me that I had a "destiny" to become a famous writer, and to be remembered as one of the most important thinkers of the century.

In a few days I am to die. Strange, the idea neither shocks nor frightens me…

I am going to die. Not in the goth existential way of overwrought poetry, all, “I stood upon the stage of life and saw Death, my dark-eyed lover, flipping me the bird from the back row,” but in the very literal sense that something’s going to happen to make his heart stop beating in, oh, say the next five minutes.

I...have always known that my destiny was, above all, a literary destiny — that bad things and some good things would happen to me, but that, in the long run, all of it would be converted
into words. Particularly the bad things, since happiness does not need to be transformed: happiness is its own end.

A person's destiny often ends before his death.

“I’d always been fascinated by death, which sounds so morbid. Especially being a woman trying to make music, I think there’s a sense that you’re never young enough, or your career is going to end soon. So there’s that element of ‘I’m going to die soon.’ Maybe not physically, but I’m going to run out of time very soon. It’s always on my mind. I have to do things now.

Like everyone else, I am going to die. But the words - the words live on for as long as there are readers to see them, audiences to hear them. It is immortality by proxy. It is not really a bad deal, all things considered.

I am not ill. But do not worry, one day, I will certainly die.

When you understand that you will die tomorrow, if not today, and nothing will be left, then everything is so unimportant!... So one goes on living, amusing oneself with hunting, with work - anything so as not think of death

One thought I think every person eventually thinks is, “Holy shit, I’m going to die!” Sorry, I just turned thirty yesterday, so my mortality is on my mind.

I am alone – quite alone – in the world – the blight of misfortune has passed over me and withered me; I know that I am about to die and I feel happy – joyous.

Every poem should remind the reader that they are going to die.

I don't mind having to die now, for I see that he is the cause of my death is about to share the same fate.