Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Caskets. 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 Caskets Quotes And Sayings by 95 Authors including Jessica Mitford,Mokokoma Mokhonoana,Alice Thomas Ellis,Elbert Hubbard,Erich Maria Remarque for you to enjoy and share.
Now there is a society where the funeral industry got completely out of control.
If corpses were still able to buy things, the inside of coffins would have been turned into advertising space a long time ago.
I have frequently thought that the dead should be buried with all their belongings. It seems weirdly perverse that their clothes should still be here when the people you love best in the world have gone.
The graveyards are full of people the world could not do without.
Those are for us,' growls Detering. 'Don't talk rubbish,' Kat snaps back at him. 'You'll be lucky to get a coffin at all,' grins Tjaden, 'they'll just use a tarpaulin to wrap up that target-practice dummy you call a body, you wait and see.
Who embalms the Undertaker when he dies?
I want a big 25-foot pink statue that holds my grave. Or I also might like the way the Indians did it. They hang you up on the top of a tree and the birds eat you. No, really I would probably choose cremating.
In America, burial means an embalmed body in a heavy-duty casket with a vault built over it, so that the ground doesn't settle. That body is encased in many layers of denial.
The bodies. Oh God, the bodies. And the blood and the screams and the smell of it all, like overripe peaches stuffed with pennies.
There is a graveyard in my poor heart - dark, heaped-up graves, from which no flowers spring.
No Mourners.
No Funerals.
Do they come to bury the others or to be entombed to give life or to receive it?
Brains. Hearts. Lungs. Eyes. All pickled in some kind of home-brewed formaldehyde,
Putting a body in a box as a keepsake for mortals to cling to long after everything that was that person is gone - it turns my stomach. Graveyards are for the living, not the dead.
I want a natural burial. Just straight into the ground in a shroud.
How we keep these dead souls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself his necropolis.
No idea how you figured out the riddle, but you scooped the first prize. Congratulations. You've just won a vacation to a big, relaxing place called a grave.
Cadavers' intestines hanging like a parade streamers off the sides of tables, skulls bobbing in boiling pots, organs strewn on the floor being eaten by dogs ...
Married and buried, wed and dead.
An everlasting funeral marches round your heart.
I think we could jam a bit more in our coffins than we do. I'm going to have some books, some I haven't finished or haven't read, some feathers and nice bits and pieces, the odd note. Just on the journey for the next bit.
The first grave. Now we're getting someplace. Houses and children and graves, that's home, Tom. Those are the things that hold a man down.
The business of the dead belongs to the living.
preferably left buried in
There is nothing so good as a burial at sea. It is simple, tidy, and not very incriminating.
Some folklorists just collected dead bones from one graveyard, only to bury them in another, their library.
Death possesses a good deal, of real estate, namely, the graveyard in every town.
The soul will fly home of its own accord, but shipping a coffin is pretty expensive.
The only thing that lives beyond the grave is the wake you have created by the way you have lived your life; the goals you have set; the distance away from the normal you dared to tread.
I sometimes imagine I would like my ashes to be scattered in a library. But then the librarians would just have to come in early the next morning to sweep them up again, before the people got there.
The dead should not linger.
I believe that the truest parts of people can be buried, and for many different reasons.
Funerals prove that someone is really gone.
What do you do when the dead return? It is the thing people most fear- yet, in some cases, most desire
Funeral by funeral, theory advances.
An element of the burial custom which today seems particularly macabre was the possibility of being buried with a companion, a male or female follower, presumably usually a slave, killed for the burial.
The last time somebody was cremated, his ashes were sprinkled from a crop duster. We all ran for cover. We liked him fine, but we didn't want him all over our good clothes.
Buried and burned. Never find them. Never. Buried and buried.
Cadavers and spirits are human refuse, and they are absurdly difficult to dispose of properly. When someone dies, a small gang of specialists is required to remove and inter the body in such a way that it can always be located precisely at any time while preventing it from ever appearing again.
Remember the coffin where men All must to dust be returning.
All these last offices and ceremonies that concern the dead, the careful funeral arrangements, and the equipment of the tomb, and the pomp of obsequies, are rather the solace of the living than the comfort of the dead.
Of all the priceless objects left behind, this is what we rescue. These artifacts. Memory cues. Useless souvenirs. Nothing you could auction. The scars left from happiness.
This was trouble
of the bury-your-dead variety.
The dead carry with them to the grave in their clutched hands only that which they have given away.
All I desire for my own burial, is not to be buried alive; but how or where, I think, must be entirely indifferent to every rational creature.
I wondered what I thought I was burying.
High on their posthumous pedestals, the dead become hard to see. Grief, deference, and the homogenizing effects of adulation blur the details, flatten the bumps, sand off the sharp corners.
I notice young girls picking flowers off her gravestone; their clean hearts are soapstone. Their small sorrows are for children alone. And all of their stories will never be told.
O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? Where, indeed. Many a badly stung survivor, faced with the aftermath of some relative's funeral, has ruefully concluded that the victory has been won hands down by a funeral establishment - in disastrously unequal battle.
memory is a shallow grave
Where there's a will there's a dead person.
The dead to the grave, the living to the loaf.
the wildflowers said what burial.
There is something sad about clothes laid in a tomb of trunks.
O heart, and mind, and thoughts! what thing do you Hope to inherit in the grave below?
The cemetery is full of indispensable people.
You need a cemetery to go through life
Life goes by really fast, and it seems that there are times when you're burying a lot of friends and family. And then there are times that feel really precious and everybody is doing okay. This is one of those times.
The dead have nothing except the memory they've left.
I do not want to heap coals of fire on anyone's head, but I would like to advise those who keep the living thought of the dead hidden away in cardboard boxes, to pass on as quickly as possibly such explosive material, whose only legitimate heir is the whole world, that is to say, my neighbor.
That once were urgent and necessary for an orderly world and now were buried away, gathering dust and of no use to anyone.
People ask me what makes a good funeral, and I tell them the most important thing is your man in the casket. If you have a man of substance in there, you have the makings of a first-class funeral.
I'm not sure the dead are really concerned with that. And
by the late second and first centuries BC, across southern Britain, certain members of society enjoy well-equipped inhumation and cremation burial, the males usually distinguished by swords, the females by mirrors.
Man and woman are two locked caskets, of which each contains the key to the other.
We don't plan funerals till the body is dead.
Something had been buried that was not yet dead.
While you are living, part of you has slipped away to the cemetery.
Mortification. I'm draped in it. Painted in it. Buried in it.
Graveyards are filled with books that were never written, songs that were never sung, words that were never spoken, things that were never done.
. . . my bones they'll burn or bury. It'll be my death.
It's a lonely thing carrying the body of someone dead and loved. Like a vase you know will never again hold flowers. I
It's the decomposition that gets me. You spend your whole life looking after your body. And then you rot away.
ashes of the dead slaves fleeing on the wind, back toward Africa.
What does one do about the dead? They live forever.
Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance.
A funeral is not death, any more than baptism is birth or marriage union. All three are the clumsy devices, coming now too late, now too early, by which Society would register the quick motions of man.
The wife Estelle's stone sinks to the right. The dead here seem really dead, and bone lonely, unlike the graves in Italian cemeteries, bedecked with fresh flowers, red votive lights, and photos of the deceased.
One thing I'd learned from all the burying I'd attended was that sometimes it's hard to pay attention. Burying someone you know will set your mind down some distant trail, as the one you're really on is too painful to view.
at the burial of Ernest, Sarah's brother
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Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.
The coffins are really for us. The organization surpasses itself in that kind of thing.
Let the dead bury the dead, your time will come.
Some people were born just so they could be buried.
I love a cardboard coffin. Both Mummy and Daddy went off in cardboard coffins, painted - Daddy's was rifle green. Beautifully made.
The earth is expertly designed to take back what it has created. Bodies left for carrion in enclosed, regulated spaces could be the answer to the environmental problems of burial and cremation. There is no limit to where our engagement with death can take us.
Funerals consist of older generations initiating the younger into another adulthood. Filling spaces of the one passed.
The mystery at the center of 'Burial Rites' is not who killed whom on the night of March 13, 1828. It is the mystery each of us encounters: Can we every truly know another? Can we ever truly know ourselves?
It is usual to place the corpse in an open coffin; and a priest, attended only by a boy of the choir, remains all night praying by the side of the dead body,
When I'm dead I don't want a funeral. I want people to remember me alive.
Secrets she'll take to the grave and secrets she's dying to share.
Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.
The usual mixture of rooms and squares and streets that is the mark of the Land of the Dead. Streets lead into kitchens and bedrooms, so no area is completely private or completely public.
These are the kinds of things a guy thinks about when he visits his own grave.
We are America.
We are the coffin fillers.
We are the grocers of death.
We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
What could you possibly hope to find in a cemetary?" The women said. "The dead tell no secrets and the living seldom come to visit them.
The most valuable land in the world is the graveyard. In the graveyard are buried all of the unwritten novels, never-launched businesses, unreconciled relationships, and all of the other things that people thought, 'I'll get around to that tomorrow.' One day, however, their tomorrows ran out.
One is not allowed a grief for a life never lived. Yet one has buried the fruit of love, and a great deal of hope and many dreams.
Let's put the fun back in funeral!
Where, in what cemetery of the heavens, did the tender words of lovers rest when they loved no longer?
Swiftly the remembrance of all things is buried in the gulf of eternity.