Quotes on Eulogy

Why do we spend so much of our limited time on this earth focusing on all the things that our eulogies will never cover?

The song is ended, but the melody lingers on.

God's finger touched him, and he slept.

If we have been pleased with life, we should not be displeased with death, since it comes from the hand of the same master.

It's the circle of life, and it moves us all, through despair and hope, through faith and love, 'till we find our place, on the path unwinding.

Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.

My VIP patients often regret so many things on their deathbeds. They regret the bitterness they'll leave in people's hearts. They realize the no money, no church service, no eulogy, no funeral procession no matter how elaborate, can remove the legacy of a mean spirit.

It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died. Rather we should thank God that such men lived.

He who has gone, so we but cherish his memory, abides with us, more potent, nay, more present than the living man.

I intend to live forever. So far, so good.

Satire lies about literary men while they live and eulogy lies about them when they die.

There is no value in life except what you choose to place upon it and no happiness in any place except what you bring to it yourself.

A mathematician is a device for turning coffee into theorems.

It is not length of life, but depth of life.

Surveys show that the #1 fear of Americans is public speaking. #2 is death. That means that at a funeral, the average American would rather be in the casket than doing the eulogy.

If matters go badly now, they will not always be so.

A well-fashioned day - with a beginning and an end, a purpose and a content, a color and a character, a feel and a texture - takes it place among the many and becomes a valuable memory and treasure. At midnight the winged messengers come and gather up all these pieces and take them off to wherever the mosaic is kept. And surely, on occasion, one messenger says to another, 'Wait 'til you see this one.'

Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.

As a well spent day brings happy sleep, so life well used brings happy death.

Life and death are balanced as it were on the edge of a razor

That’s one of the nice things about writing, or any art; if the thing’s real, it just lives. All the attendant hoopla about it, the success over it or the critical rejection—none of that really matters. In the end, the thing will survive or not on its own merits. Not that immortality via art is any big deal. Truffaut died, and we all felt awful about it, and there were the appropriate eulogies, and his wonderful films live on. But it’s not much help to Truffaut.