Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Grave Clothes. 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 Grave Clothes Quotes And Sayings by 92 Authors including Suzy Menkes,Gretchen Rubin,Erin Loechner,Caitlin Doughty,Harlan Coben for you to enjoy and share.
Clothes, as much as music, have an eerie echo of time and place.
After someone's death, how strange to see the value drain away from his or her possessions; useful objects such as clothes, or dish towels, or personal papers become little more than trash.
Use what you have. Shop for what you'll use. Take stock of what you have and wear it. Use it. This is the best way to honor those who have made your clothing. An
They say you can put lipstick on a pig and it's still a pig. The same holds true for a dead body. Put lipstick on a corpse and you've played dress-up with a corpse.
Another weird thing about funerals: Wear black but kill something as colorful as flowers to decorate.
Don't dress to kill, dress to survive.
Not even a hand-stitched suit could hide a body gone ruinously to seed. I was tempted to offer some fashion advice, but I didn't think he'd welcome the news that this year, bellies are being worn inside the trousers
It's true; most souls come here in whatever clothing they died in, truly unfortunate for the people who died naked. Of course, it's really worse for us than them. Most people don't look good without their clothes,...
There I lay, wearing dead people as armor against death.
The warm bittersweet smell of clean Negro welcomed us as we entered the churchyard-Hearts of Love hairdressing mingled with asafoetida, snuff, Hoyt's Cologne, Brown's Mule, peppermint, and lilac talcum.
Of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors and talk of wills; And yet not so - for what can we bequeath Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Lay these Bones in an unworthy Urn,
Tombless, with no Remembrance over them.
Denim and doubt, cotton and caution, fell to the floor in a forgotten heap
Clothes are inevitable. They are nothing less than the furniture of the mind made visible.
Well, I don't like your clothes. You look perfectly ridiculous in them. Why on earth don't you go up and change? It's perfectly childish to be in mourning for a man who is actually staying a whole week with you in your house as a guest. I call it grotesque.
Mortification. I'm draped in it. Painted in it. Buried in it.
A garden must be looked into, and dressed as the body.
It is these black clothes," said Strange. "I am like a leftover piece of funeral, condemned to walk about the Town, frightening people into thinking of their own mortality.
Royalty is a fine burial shroud.
I really don't worry about that anymore. When you're dying, you don't have time for that junk. The shit people did to you? It's over.
Our clothes are too much a part of us for most of us ever to be entirely indifferent to their condition: it is as though the fabric were indeed a natural extension of the body, or even of the soul.
Clothes mean nothing until someone lives in them.
What I always loved about vintage clothes is that you let the woman who wore it before you live on in some way.
Let the dead bury the dead.
We wore that grief like one wears one's underclothes. An invisible skin, unseen to prying eyes, but knitted to us all the same. We wore it every day.
lying on "mattress graves.
of those clothes.
Dead mothers are rather fashionable these days. They lend such an attractive air of tragedy.
I will gradually drop this subject of graveyards. I have been trying all I could to get down to the sentimental part of it, but I cannot accomplish it. I think there is no genuinely sentimental part to it. It is all grotesque, ghastly, horrible.
Tell all my mourners
To mourn in red-
Cause there ain't no sense
In my bein' dead.
Death and burial were a public spectacle. Shakespeare may have seen for himself the gravediggers at St Ann's, Soho, playing skittles with skulls and bones.
grief clung to her like an old, itchy, faded, ill-fitting, hand-me-down dress.
After you died, I kept your wardrobe locked, with all your clothes inside, all your lovely ties. The scent of you. I sat inside this wardrobe when I missed you so much.
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.
I never dreamed I'd owe my life to such an appalling article of clothing,
When I die, I want to be buried in a long long-sleeve black Ralph Lauren dress and brown chunky boots. I want my hair styled like his models, long hair that flows. I also want natural makeup with a light pink lip.
Century and after century, headstones and grave markers were crafted, marble shrines to lost life and to bodies that could neither see nor touch nor think nor feel, bodies that were respected and appreciated more after death than some ever could have hoped to be in life.
So this is where stylists go when they've outlived their use. To sad theme underwear shops where they wait for death.
I've always thought that old clothes are a lot like old houses; they bring the past and present together.
The first casualty of war is casual wear.
Gaunt immortality in black and gold,
Wreathed consoler hideous to behold.
The beautiful lie of a mother's womb,
The pious trick - for it is the tomb!
Nothing sells tombstones like a Girl Scout in uniform.
I'm going to commune with God and I must be appropriately dressed!
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.
You should see me, dressed to kill. I wear a pair of hacked-off jeans and a too-big T-shirt that I can roll up onto my head when the sun gets bad. I don't wear shoes- one, because I don't have any, and two, because you need to feel with your feet.
There is a graveyard in my poor heart - dark, heaped-up graves, from which no flowers spring.
You need a cemetery to go through life
The dead look so terribly dead when they're dead.
I wonder what goes on night and day beneath the surface of a cemetery.
The cemetery was vanity transmogrified into stone. Instead of growing more sensible in death, the inhabitants of the cemetery were sillier than they had been in life.
The connection between dress and war is not far to seek; your finest clothes are those you wear as soldiers.
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth,
Let's choose executors and talk of wills
Pride of place in my wardrobe is an Edwardian-style Norfolk Jacket in Derby Tweed. It is silk-lined with leather-clad buttons and has a smell that reminds me of wet moss and fallen leaves.
The dead leave their shadows, an echo of the space within which once they lived. They haunt us, never fading or growing older as we do. The loss we grieve is not just their futures but our own.
Clothing is ... an exercise in memory. It makes me explore the past: how did I feel when I wore that. They are like signposts in the search for the past.
My favorite shirt to sleep in is the one my birth mom was wearing when she died in my arms. Morbid for some perhaps but comforting to me.
Don't order any black things. Rejoice in his memory; and be radiant: leave grief to the children. Wear violet and purple. Be patient with the poor people who will snivel: they don't know; and they think they will live for ever, which makes death a division instead of a bond.
The trouble with dead people today is they have no sense of decorum
I dress to kill, but tastefully.
I'm not a collector of clothes. I've got clothes to wear.
In thy apparel avoid singularity, profuseness, and gaudiness. Be not too early in the fashion, nor too late. Decency is half way between affectation and neglect. The body is the shell of the soul, apparel is the husk of that shell; the husk often tells you what the kernel is.
From the cradle to the coffin underwear comes first.
Nobody cries because of a person's death; death for them is a change of clothes, nothing else.
Don't you love to look at coffins? I've always enjoyed looking at one now and then. I think of a coffin as an absolutely lovely piece of furniture, even when it's empty, and if there's someone lying in it, it's really quite sublime in my eyes.
As you treat your body, so your house, your domestics, your enemies, your friends. Dress is a table of your contents.
I've got whole years of unfortunate clothing in '80s.
I want to be buried in a Valentino gown and I want Harry Winston to make me a toe tag.
Death is only attractive in a fashionable dress, with lilies and an open coffin.
When the fun goes out of getting dressed, you might as well be dead.
While friends and lovers mourn your silly grave, I have other uses for you, darling. I love the dead.
When I see beautiful clothes, I want to keep them, preserve them ... Clothes, like architecture and art, reflect an era.
The fashion magazines are suggesting that women wear clothes that are 'age appropriate.' For me that would be a shroud.
The cemetery is full of indispensable people.
They were the kind of clothes that might turn you into someone else.
I archive a lot of my clothes and have them wrapped up and in boxes. I call them 'little tombs' and keep them in a storage space ... I would never get rid of the dress I wore on the night I won my Oscar. When I die, someone can have it, but not a minute before!
When seen in retrospect, fashions seem to express their era. Although it is more difficult to draw conclusions from contemporary clothes, the same principles which hold for the clothes of the past must hold for clothes of the present and the future.
breeches and a rough smock
I look through the grave into heaven.
The dead have nothing except the memory they've left.
As I go into a cemetery I like to think of the time when the dead shall rise from their graves ... Thank God, our friends are not buried; they are only sown!
To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.
Funeral expenses are the curse of the poor everywhere on earth, they are wasteful and unnecessary, they are the price of foolish ostentation and a display that is less an evidence of grief than a vulgar travesty of those pompous obsequies where no grief is.
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.
Clothes are a kind of uniform. A nun's habit, a surgeon's scrubs, a cop's uniform. People often say that when they put on a certain uniform, they actually think of themselves differently.
Clothes are of but little loss, if you escape from drowning.
I'm not sure the dead are really concerned with that. And
How quickly the dead faded into each other,
Shall Joy wear what Grief has fashioned?
I wore his blood for clothing, on my legs and thighs and hands: a dry, stiff, brown garment with no warmth in it.
While you are living, part of you has slipped away to the cemetery.
The graves of those we have loved and lost distress and console as.
Body is a home, a prison and a grave.
Folks always look good in their coffins.
We stood in the graveyard, among the tombstones, forty-some dead people and me. A couple of my fellow funeral-goers had even been in their own coffins, deep under several feet of French soil.
Death possesses a good deal, of real estate, namely, the graveyard in every town.
In American military cemeteries all over the world, seemingly endless rows of whitened grave markers stand largely unvisited and in silence. The gardeners tend the lawns, one section at a time. Even at the famous sites, tourism is inconstant.
The dead should not linger.
I'm wearing dead cotton on my limbs and a blush of roses on my face.
We never bury the dead, son. Not really. We take them with us. It's the price of living.
If wrappings of cloth can impart respectability, the most respectable persons are the Egyptian mummies, all wrapped in layers and layers of gauze