Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Cadaverous. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Cadaverous Quotes And Sayings by 95 Authors including Laurie Fabiano,Shake-O,James Joyce,Anne Sexton,M. Lee Goff for you to enjoy and share.
caduto in terra - piece of heaven fallen to earth. They
The empty husks of the dead have arisen,and the crave the flesh of the living
A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk.
I brush my hair,
waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard,
for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart
and were screwed together. They will knit.
And the other corpse, the fractured heart,
I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
Insects are major players in nature's recycling effort, and in nature a corpse is simply organic matter to be recycled. Left to its own devices, nature quickly populates a corpse with a diverse community of organisms, all dedicated to reducing the body to its basic components.
A corpse is what's left after waking too often.
Extraordinary what the body remembers. The bones loded with love, grief silting the arteries, fear the bowels' recurring mould. Who would have thought mere flesh and blood could hold so much of psyche's ghostly script?
Theta crashed next to them on the thick zebra-skin rug. "I'm embalmed."
"Potted and splificated?"
"Ossified to the gills. Time for night-night.
My heart occasionally stuttered, out of sync, out of power - almost
as if it recognised death and wanted to give in. I forced it to do the bare essentials, keeping me from a grave. I was in the coffin ready to be buried, but I wasn't a corpse just yet.
hardly had my knife severed the head of each, before the whole body began to melt away and crumble into its native dust, as though the death that should have come centuries ago had at last assert himself and say at once and loud, "I am here!
If there were ever a cadaver eligible for sainthood, it would not be our Spalding Gray upon the cross, it would be these guys: the brain-dead, beating-heart organ donors that come and go in our hospitals every day.
Nothing is dead: men feign themselves dead, and endure mock funerals and mournful obituaries, and there they stand looking out ofthe window, sound and well, in some new and strange disguise.
Puny human body, my ass!
This body did not live for me.
I don't see why not," I all but snapped at him. "His body was experimented upon, and there are records of it. What else would you call it?"
"I don't know. Necropsy?
I saw some piglets suckling their dead mother. After a short while they shuddered and went away. They had sensed that she could no longer see them and that she wasn't like them any more. What they loved in their mother wasn't her body, but whatever it was that made her body live.
The Beauty of Death
The colors of living things begin to fade with the last breath, and the soft, springy skin and supple muscle rot within weeks. But the bones sometimes remain, faithful echoes of the shape, to bear some last faint witness to the glory of what was.
There is nothing in the world more stubborn than a corpse: you can hit it, you can knock it to pieces, but you cannot convince it.
To waste! You are unknown and unwanted, save by me. This, because you are fairly adept at the various embalming arts and you occasionally compose a clever epitaph.
Bloody, broken bits of flesh make up what I think is a face, but it's hard to tell. It looks like someone carved it up with a cleaver.
A body - physical, astral, dead - might be treated as an object, might be adored and hated. So this story has emerged from the material that the body is.
The mortician interviewing the corpses
When the body escaped mutilation, seldom did the heart go to the grave unscarred.
Three points for the dead slowly prising open the lids of their coffins. They want to hunt the living. They can't stop. Their throats have turned to liquid and their fingers glint under the weak autumn sun.
His heart was a grave.
What do you have in mind - inhumement, entombment, inurnment, interment? Some people lately just prefer in-sarcophogus-ment.
The grave, dread thing! Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appalled, Shakes off her wonted firmness.
Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect
So,would you say I'm closer to a zombie or a vampire? I gotta know - are my parts going to rot and fall off, or am I forever frozen in youthful perfection?
Now, a corpse, poor thing, is an untouchable and the process of decay is, of all pieces of bad manners, the vulgarest imaginable. For a corpse is, by definition, a person absolutely devoid of savoir vivre.
What? Corpus. Body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupifies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it; only swallow it down.
Man is only man at the surface. Remove the skin, dissect, and immediately you come to machinery.
What was my body to me? A kind of flunkey in my service. Let but my anger wax hot, my love grow exalted, my hatred collect in me, and that boasted solidarity between me and my body was gone.
The body is the garden of the soul.
The body is not a thing, it is a situation: it is our grasp on the world and our sketch of our project
One shard of brilliant summer pierced me
and remains.
By this only
unregenerate bone
I am not dead, but waiting.
Dark circles under my eyes sink deeper and deeper into my skull, in contrast to my pale skin there is an undeniable resemblance to a fresh corpse.
It is an interesting truth that the human body, liberated from its head, is in essence a bag of blood with a built-in straw. Holding
Who took away the part so essential to the whole Left you a hollow body Skin and bone.
Death is a solemn thing, and never so much so as when we see it close at hand. The grave is a chilling, heart-sickening place, and it is vain to pretend it has no terrors.
The body is never more alive than when it is dead; but it is alive in its units, and dead in its totality; alive as a congeries, dead as an organism.
Alive. Alive in the way that death is alive.
There is a certain seductiveness about dead things. You can ill treat, alter and recolour what's dead. It won't complain.
Once I had flesh the city could pierce with a frown- I'd bleed into sewers like rain. Men without legs on subways moved me, women with swollen feet. Now I belong to them. When I ignore them it's with the confusion of the newly damned- as if I believe I've survived.
Dissection," writes historian Ruth Richardson in Death, Dissection, and the Destitute, "requires in its practitioners the effective suspension or suppression of many normal physical and emotional responses to the wilful mutilation of the body of another human being.
First you inspect me Then you dissect me Then you reject me I wait for the day That you'll resurrect me Animate
My purpose is to tell of bodies that have been changed into shapes of different kinds.
The human body is mostly blood and mystery and sadness ...
She made a ravishing corpse.
I'm dead?"
"That body is... yes.
I am my heart's undertaker. Daily I go and retrieve its tattered remains, place them delicately into its little coffin, and bury it in the depths of my memory, only to have to do it all again tomorrow.
In a fleshy tomb I am buried above ground.
You know, of course, the specimens are not alive. We have to fix them in a fixing liquid formaldehyde and then we have to do a rinsing and then we have to coat them in a thin layer of gold.
The body is like the earth ... as vulnerable to overbuilding, being carved into parcels, cut off, overmined, and shorn of its power as any landscape.
I'm surprised by how much the inside of a dead body smells like the inside of a live one.
Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay?
Emulation embalms the dead; envy, the vampire, blasts the living.
Vultures pick the meat clean off a bone. Guilt eats at the marrow, leaving a man hollow.
It wasn't until I had performed by first autopsy that I realized that even the drabest human exteriors could contain the most beautiful viscera. After that, I would console myself for the plainness of my fellow bus-riders by dissecting them in my imagination.
We murder to dissect.
Corporeal death is not the whole story.
Dead.
Even in the silence of my mind I cannot think the word. I cannot acknowledge this most obvious and terrible of truths.
Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.
I watched with disturbed fascination as the corpses decomposed, flesh turning to a pale tan goo. The bones melted after, and then the clothing. In seconds, each corpse was just a pile of colored gunk, and even that seemed to be evaporating.
Death's the discarder.
My intention is to tell of bodies changed into new forms.
He lay in his stony crypt like his own corpse, hardly breathing, his heart hardly beating - and yet lived as intensively and dissolutely as ever a rake had lived in the wide world outside.
As deformed as a grotesque potato,
What's left of what your body was - once the girl with bare shoulder blades , giggling, once the girl galloping an imaginary horse, once the girl sleeping in her sequined red dress - was now ash in a jar. Grains of bone. But then, I knew it wasn't you anymore. You were somewhere more.
Bodies lay everywhere, in grotesque attitudes of violent death, but manifesting the miracle of life in a snore, a mutter, the flight of a bubble from the lips.
For me, sculpture is the body. My body is my sculpture.
Mummies are dehydrated & they long for the blood of living words.
Skinless creatures swayed in death throes from thick, silver hooks. Beneath them, on the turquoise mosaic floor, rows of buckets overflowed with clotting blood.
You ate my dog, you undead freak!"
Hey! Watch the slander. I hear the acceptable term is 'corporeally
challenged' now. No need to be rude.
You walk on corpses, beauty, undismayed.
Does that body require disposal, sir?
With Gnaw I was thinking about traditional sculpture, about carving. I was also interested in figurative sculpture. I put those two ideas together and decided that rather than describing the body, I would use the body, my body, as a tool for making art.
Death leaves cans of shaving cream half-used.
All considerations
for these human remains!
They must have an escort!
They are classified!
I am an offspring of the dead. I am descended from the deceased. I am the progeny of phantoms. My ancestors are the illustrious multitudes of the defunct, grand and innumerable. My lineage is longer than time. My name is written in embalming fluid in the book of death. A noble race is mine.
Life - a spiritual pickle preserving the body from decay.
What can a man read in a library of cannibals?
Bloody books bound by bones in tissues' paper.
I feel like a real dead one: having neither blood to bleed nor any flesh or bone to feel the scars; yet I want to hold on to my spirit.
Mortification. I'm draped in it. Painted in it. Buried in it.
One fine day you've got to give your body to somebody, or turn into a fully-fledged zombie.
Crack'd in pieces by malignant Death.
An extermination center can only manufacture corpses; a society of total domination creates a world of the living dead...
Lifeless and shockingly alien in that place where dissolution itself was a seething turmoil of ejaculation tumescence conception and birth, and death did not even exit.
What have you to do with hearts, except for dissection?
Better undead than dead.
Deathwatch. That's a kind of beetle, it buries carrion. I
As a boy I used to go to the Chamber of Horrors at the annual fair, to look at the wax figures of Emperors and Kings, of heroes and murderers of the day. The dead now had that same unreality, which shocks without arousing pity.
Every model is a living sculpture - art in-vivo.
Sometimes, dead is bettah - Jud Crandall, Pet Sematary
A body can't be too partic'lar how they talk 'bout these-yer dead people, Tom.
The loss inside him kept piling - vertebrae shattered, finger bones lost, gravestone past and guillotine future, ghost woman and her ghost curls,
The living grave of crime.
The sooner the rebirth, the prettier the corpse.
Hemalurgy, it is called, because of the connection to blood. It is not a coincidence, I believe, that
death is always involved in the transfer of powers via Hemalurgy. Marsh once described it as a
"messy" process. Not the adjective I would have chosen. It's not disturbing enough.