Janet Fitch Quotes

When I die bury me in smoke.

When I die, I hope they don't cremate me 'cuz I'll burn forever.

When it's time to shuffle off this mortal coil, you leave your ashes to be composted.

I haven't really thought about where to scatter my ashes when the time comes, but I doubt that it would be in space.

My dad died of a stroke.

I love a cardboard coffin. Both Mummy and Daddy went off in cardboard coffins, painted - Daddy's was rifle green. Beautifully made.

. . . my bones they'll burn or bury. It'll be my death.

I want to be cremated, and I want my ashes blown in Uri Geller's eyes.

My sister died in Brooklyn.

What's going to happen when I die? I may be buried, or I may be cremated, I may give my body to science. I haven't decided yet.

I'm thinking maybe letting the latches burn is the right idea. Let everything burn until there's nothing left but ashes and cool rain.

Funerals prove that someone is really gone.

Storms rumble beyond the horizon, and the fires of heaven purge the earth. There is no salvation without destruction, no hope this side of death.

Living fire begets cold, impotent ash.

When I die, I want to be cremated with everybody.

We're all embers from the same fire. Our ember winks out, we're ashes, we go back to the fire.

Lestat: I despise you! I ought to destroy you-finish what I started when I made you. Turn you into ashes and sift them through my hands. You know that I could do it! Like that! Like the snap of mortal fingers, I could do it. Burn you as I burnt your little house. And nothing could save you, nothing at all.

When I'm dead I don't want a funeral. I want people to remember me alive.

Moms Mabley said you have to say good things about the dead. I say, 'He's dead. Good.'

Then, with an enormous rush of meadow-filled wind, the green candle went out, and my best friend died.

History seldom destroys that which does not deserve to die; and the burning of the tares makes for the next sowing a richer soil.

Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can't be sure.

Them chickens is ash and I'm lotion.

A man, when he burns, leaves only a handful of ashes. No woman can hold him. The wind must blow him away.

I could picture life—school and everything else—continuing on without me. But I could not picture my funeral. Not at all. Mostly because I couldn’t imagine who would attend or what they would say.