Ronald Firbank Quotes

Death is an art, you know.

No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse.

He would make a lovely corpse.

There's nothing like a headless corpse to bring a touch of excitement into one's life.

Buffalo Bill's defunct who used to ride a watersmooth-silver stallion and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat Jesus he was a handsome man and what i want to know is how do you like your blueeyed boy Mister Death

He makes a very handsome corpse and becomes his coffin prodigiously.

What is death, after all? We leave only mortals behind us.

Death: the anaesthetic from which none come round.

I shall soon be laid in the quiet grave--thank God for the quiet grave--O! I can feel the cold earth upon me--the daisies growing over me--O for this quiet--it will be my first.

Killing rips the soul apart.

Sleep in a world, your final sleep has woken

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.

Death is never easy when you know the people doing the dying.

I wonder what it’s like for her, looking so much like a dead girl.

The great majority gave no signs one way or the other; like birth, their death was a sleep and a forgetting.

He's no more human than I am, ma petite." At least I'm not dead." That can be remedied.

Just take a look around you: Blood is flowing in rivers and in such a jolly way you’d think it was champagne.

Pretty girls make graves

Look on the grave where thou must sleep Thy last, and strongest foe; It is endurance not to weep, If that repose seem woe.

They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, that all of thee we loved and cherished has with thy summer roses perished; and left, as its young beauty fled, an ashen memory in its stead.

Nature, the great Moloch, which exacts a frightful tax of human blood, sparing neither young nor old; taking the child from the cradle, the mother from her babe, and the father from the family.

I saw corpses, and grew used to their unimportant look, for a dead man without any of the panoply of death is a desperately insignificant object.

O Death, what are thou? nurse of dreamless slumbers freshening the fevered flesh to a wakefulness eternal.

Why children?' he asked. 'Why always children? For love to end where it begins is far more beautiful, and Nature knows it.