Emily Bronte Quotes

Oh how beautiful to fall to give you flight, to die to give you life, to rest under your sky; and in your enchanted land forever sleep.

Sleep would be so welcome. A warm blanket of black to erase everything else. Sleep without dreams. I've heard people talk about the sleep of the dead. Is that what death would feel like? The nicest, warmest, heaviest never-ending nap? If that's what it's like, I wouldn't mind. If that's what dying is like, I wouldn't mind that at all.

Sleep is a hint of lovely oblivion.

The first moments of sleep are an image of death; a hazy torpor grips our thoughts and it becomes impossible for us to determine the exact instant when the 'I,' under another form, continues the task of existence.

But what is all this fear of and opposition to Oblivion? What is the matter with the soft Darkness, the Dreamless Sleep?

There is no me. I do not exist. There used to be a me but I had it surgically removed.

I wondered vaguely if this was when it would end, whether I would pull up tonight's darkness like a quilt and be dead and at peace evermore.

They who are all things to their neighbors cease to be anything to themselves.

It's difficult to describe the weirdness of speaking to a man who appears to be perfectly in control of his faculties, who can deliver off-the-cuff repartee, and yet who is actually utterly disconnected from who he is.

Downy sleep, death's counterfeit.

The dead they sleep a long, long sleep; The dead they rest, and their rest is deep; The dead have peace, but the living weep.

Identity is memory; when memory disappears, the self dissolves and love with it.

Sleep, delicious and profound, the very counterfeit of death

Death: the anaesthetic from which none come round.

Once you don't have freedom and you're obliged to do many things you don't want, and it becomes a routine, then your identity is at stake because you can feel that you are not anymore yourself, that you are what they want you to be - and you can lose yourself.

Sleep in a world, your final sleep has woken

Tereza had gone back to sleep; he could not. He pictured her death. She was dead and having terrible nightmares; but because she was dead, he was unable to wake her from them. Yes, that is death: Tereza asleep, having terrible nightmares, and he unable to wake her.

Sleeping as quiet as death, side by wrinkled side, toothless, salt and brown, like two old kippers in a box.

The names are the first things to go, after the breath has gone, and the beating of the heart. We keep our memories longer than our names.

Your dead sleep quietly, at least, Captain, out of reach of sharks" "Yes, sir, of sharks and men.

Only the forgotten are truly dead.

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, morn of toil, nor night of waking.

Sleep is death without the responsibility.

It's been a long time since I've been me.

Only in death will we have our own names since only in death are we no longer part of the effort. In death we become heroes.