Death is just where your suit falls off and now you're
in your other suit. But you can't see it on this level, so
it's all right. Don't worry.

What is death? A scary mask. Take it off – see, it doesn’t bite.

There is a time when death is an event, an ad-venture, and as such mobilizes, interests, activates, tetanizes. And then one day it is no longer an event, it is another duration, compressed, insignificant, not narrated, grim, without recourse: true mourning not susceptible to any narrative dialectic.

Why do people want to pretend that death is sleep? It isn't. It isn't.

One who is about to die is really dead already and being so, exist no longer

Death doesn't exist. It never did, it never will. But we've drawn so many pictures of it, so many years, trying to pin it down, comprehend it, we've got to thinking of it as an entity, strangely alive and greedy. All it is, however, is a stopped watch, a loss, an end, a darkness. Nothing.

To find out actually what takes place when you die you must
die. This isn't a joke. You must die - not physically but
psychologically, inwardly, die to the things you have cherished and
to the things you are bitter about. If you have died to one of your
pleasures, the smallest or the greatest, naturally, without any
enforcement or argument, then you will know what it means to die.
To die is to have a mind that is completely empty of itself, empty
of its daily longing, pleasure; and agonies. Death is a renewal, a
mutation, in which thought does not function at all because thought
is old. When there is death there is something totally new. Freedom
from the known is death, and then you are living.

<i>we disappear.
It happens to me frequently. You disappear? Yes and then come back.
Moments of death I call them.</i>

Death is a fiction created by people who live their lives in total unawareness. There is only life, life and life alone, moving from one dimension to another, another dimension to another.

Death is not one of our social managements; it is a scene with one character.

A man says he is dead but he is alive. But his 'truth' is that he is dead. He expresses it perhaps in the only way common (i.e. the communal) sense allows him. He means that he is 'really' and quite 'literally' dead, not merely symbolically or 'in a sense' or 'as it were', and is seriously bent on communicating his truth. [...] He either is God, or the Devil, or in hell, estranged from God. When someone says he is an unreal man or that he is dead, in all seriousness, expressing in radical terms the stark truth of his existence as he experiences it, that is - insanity. [...] What is required of us? Understand him? [...] As long as we are sane and he is insane, it will remain so. [...] We have to recognize all the time his distinctiveness and differentness, his separateness and loneliness and despair.

To die is nothing. One is here, one is no longer here. It is only at the end one must be able to say 'I was a man'.

he wasn’t even dead. But when there is suddenly that emptiness in your home and in your heart, the loss feels very similar to death.

Maybe he was dead and this island was purgatory from which he could only watch the souls of the more deserving go shuttling past to their various Edens. What is death, after all, but a cessation of involvement with the world, a departure from those you love, and those who love you?