The more a thing tends to be permanent, the more it tends to be lifeless.
No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.
Such phantom blossoms palely shining Over the lifeless boughs of Time.
True enough, the country is calm. Calm as a morgue or a grave, would you not say?
There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be,- In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea, Or in the wide desert where no life is found.
Dead we become the lumber of the world.
Nothing ever grows in this rotting old hole.
Dead, hung up indoors, the kingfisher will not indicate a favoring wind, or avert the thunderbolt.
It is not a life at all. It is a reticence, in three volumes.
Dead bodies didn't resemble unconscious ones; it was as if you could sense that something had fled from them, that some essential spark was now missing.
Alzheimer's ... it is a barren disease, as empty and lifeless as a desert. It is a thief of hearts and souls and memories.
I expected the unexpected and went [on the Moon] with an open mind. I think the visual scene was described by my words on first landing - "magnificent desolation." Magnificent for the achievement of being there, and desolate for the eons of lifelessness.
The final result of too much routine is death in life.
The dead look so terribly dead when they're dead.
Deliver me from your cold phlegmatic preachers, politicians, friends, lovers and husbands.
Vacant heart, and hand, and eye, Easy live and quiet die.
To be bored to death is a form of suicide.
Do I look dead to you?!
I seldom go into a natural history museum without feeling as if I were attending a funeral.
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans.
Her profession's her religion, her sin is lifelessness.
The long mechanic pacings to and fro, The set, gray life, and apathetic end.
Pale January lay In its cradle day by day Dead or living, hard to say.
Boredom is nothing but the experience of a paralysis of our productive powers and the sense of unaliveness. Among the evils of life, there are few which are as painful as boredom, and consequently every attempt is made to avoid it.
Purposeless activity may be a phase of death.
