Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Mortis. 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 Mortis Quotes And Sayings by 85 Authors including Rick Riordan,T.o. Munro,William Goldman,Sarah J. Maas,John Owen for you to enjoy and share.
Please tell me your master isn't Aeolus."
"That airhead?" Favonius snorted. "No, of course not."
"He means Eros." Nico's voice turned edgy. "Cupid, in Latin."
Favonius smiled. "Very good, Nico di Angelo. I'm glad to see you again, by the way. It's been a long time.
It can't be," Udecht stammered. "Eadran the Vanquisher destroyed him near a millennium ago. Maelgrum is gone. Finished."
"My dear bishop, he isn't exactly alive, I grant you," the hooded medusa teased. "But he is certainly a lot less dead than you would like.
Funny thing- Morgenstern's folk's were named Max and Valerie and his father was a doctor.
There's a grave I need to visit.
A man may be carried on in a constant course of mortification all his days; and yet perhaps never enjoy a good day of peace and consolation.
A poor soul burdened with a corpse,' Epictetus calls you.
Blow me, Grim Reaper!
Death's dry bones glowed with light in the erotic dark but he woke not nor felt the two warm bodies merge; the male worm then took heart and in his wife's ear whispered: With one sweet kiss, dear wife, we've conquered conquering Death!
I imagine that it will not be easy to persuade Mortmain into a bonnet," Magnus observed. "Though the color would be fetching on him."
Henry burst into laughter. "Very droll, Mr. Bane."
"Please, call me Magnus."
"I shall!
Morpheus yelps.
Once we're back on the road, I catch a glimpse of him in the rearview. His beloved hat is crushed against his chest between his fists.
My Body is graveyard of my Heart And Soul
Despair gives the shocking ease to the mind that a mortification gives to the body.
It shall be a duty and a pleasing sport to wander with Momus beneath the tropic stars where Melpomene once stalked austere.
I do not wish to die: but I care not if I were dead.
[Lat., Emori nolo: sed me esse mortuum nihil aestimo.]
My dad gave me a present once,' Nico said. 'It was a zombie.'
Reyna stared at him. 'What?'
'His name is Jules-Albert. He's French.'
'A ... French zombie?
Let me repeat with quite force: I was, and still am, despite mes malheurs, an exceptionally handsome male; slow moving tall, with dark soft hair and a gloomy but all the more seductive cast of demeanour.
He can't die! He's the bloody King of Winter."
"Don't be absurd," said Bob, rolling an eye at the wounded Janus. "Just because he's immortal doesn't mean he can't die!
Oh, I'm going to kill Mundungus Fletcher!
Relius lay alone with his thoughts. What kind of man, he wondered, referred to himself as "safely dead"?
I am one of the crucified dead.
Morpheus leans close. His hair brushes my exposed shoulder, tickling and soft. "Shy little blossom," he whispers, his sweet breath cloaking me. "We're simply going to meld your pain away."
Meld ... that doesn't sound like something my dad would approve of.
Carpe Diam forever after.
This tottered ensign of my ancestors
Which swept the desert shore of that dead sea
Whereof we got the name of Mortimer,
Will I advance upon these castle-walls.
Drums, strike alarum, raise them from their sport,
And sing aloud the knell of Gaveston!
DEATH: "Mostly they aren't too keen to see me. They fear the sunless lands. But they enter your realm each night without fear."
MORPHEUS: "And I am far more terrible than you, sister.
And so Mort came at last to the river Ankh, greatest of rivers. Even before it entered the city, it was slow and heavy with the silt of the plains, and by the time it got to The Shades even an agnostic could have walked across it. It was hard to drown in the Ankh, but easy to suffocate.
He makes a very handsome corpse and becomes his coffin prodigiously.
What a puzzle you are to me, Jander Sunstar! You feed upon lifeblood, yet mourn the life you take. You are a being of shadow and night, yet you yearn to be surrounded by beauty. You are dead, but you cannot bear decay. What exactly are you? You can hardly be a vampire!
There are souls, he thought, whose umbilicus has never been cut. They never got weaned from the universe. They do not understand death as an enemy; they look forward to rotting and turning into humus.
Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.
He who does not mortify his palate will neither know how to mortify his flesh.
Pulvis et umbra sumus," said James once, out loud in class, after hearing too many whispers. "My father says that sometimes. We are but dust and shadows. Maybe I'm just -getting a head start on all of you.
Who dies in youth and vigour, dies the best.
Parturient montes, nascetur ridiculus mus.
(Mountains are in labour, a ridiculous mouse will be born)
Death is a master from Germany.
Speramus meliora; resurgret cineribus. We hope for better things; it will rise from the ashes,
I've missed you, Eris. You and me, we kind of deserve each other, don't we?
Better undead than dead.
Whoever mourns the dead mourns himself.
You must know that I am made of death, from head to foot, and it is a corpse who loves you and adores you and will never, never leave you!
Morituri Non Cognant (Those Who are About to Die, Just Don't know)
I am helpless as the sea at the end of her string. I am restless. Restless and useless. I, too, create corpses.
One rational voice is dumb: over a grave
The household of Impulse mourns one dearly loved.
Sad is Eros, builder of cities,
And weeping anarchic Aphrodite.
Thou fool, what is sleep but the image of death? Fate will give an eternal rest.
[Lat., Stulte, quid est somnus, gelidae nisi mortis imago?
Longa quiescendi tempora fata dabunt.]
THERE'S NO JUSTICE, said Mort. JUST US.
French zombie chauffeur.
Good King Wenceslas tastes great; We might as well eat Stephen, When the brains lay round about, Toasted crisp and bleedin'. Brightly shown the moon that night, Though the virus cruel. When a poor man came in sight, He made fine undead fuel.
Death's the discarder.
Self-mortification, far from producing liberation from material things, is far more likely to cause either an unhinged mind, delusions or a masochistic taste for more suffering, experienced, of course, as joy.
Mummies are dehydrated & they long for the blood of living words.
Granny looked up at the zombie. He was - or, technically, had been - a tall, handsome man. He still was, only now he looked like someone who had walked through a room full of cobwebs.
'What's your name, dead man?' she said.
What's your name?" Scapegrace asked.
"Gerald," said the man.
Scapegrace pondered. Gerald the zombie just didn't have that fear-inducing ring to it. "I'm going to call you Thrasher," he said.
One of the first lessons a necromancer learns is the art of playing dumb. Of course, one problem with playing dumb is that is seeps into your everyday life. ~Jaime Vegas
These arent your mother's zombies!
I am Valentine's son. Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern. You never had any right to that name. You're a ghost. And a pretender.
I don't know. Both my parents are dead. So? Wait, I got pictures of their corpses in my wallet. I had them blown up as murals. Here.
We are the dead.
I abide in a goodly Museum, Frequented by sages profound: 'Tis a kind of strange mausoleum, Where the beasts that have vanished abound. There's a bird of the ages Triassic, With his antediluvian beak, And many a reptile Jurassic, And many a monster antique.
The vigour, and power, and comfort of our spiritual life depends on the mortification of the deeds of the flesh.
Had I as many souls as there be stars, I'd give them all for Mephistopheles!
Let me not die unremembered.
Men grieve [Mephistopheles] so with the days of their lamenting, [he] even hate[s] to plague them with [his] torments.
Uri...vinciri...verberari...ferroque necari.
I will endure to be burned... to be bound... to be beaten... and to be killed by the sword.
The dead are notoriously hard to satisfy,
Why did you laugh right before you lost consciousness."
"Death's an adventure. I lived big. Rigor mortis makes your face stick. So, who knew how to thaw me?"
"Death's an insult."
"At least an affront," I agree.
Pale death kicks with impartial foot at the hovels of the poor and the towers of kings.
Death is the mother of forms.
Murderess is a strong word to have attached to you. It has a smell to it, that word - musky and oppressive, like dead flowers in a vase. Sometimes at night I whisper it over to myself: Murderess, Murderess. It rustles, like a taffeta skirt across the floor.
What art thou Faustus, but a man condemned to die?
Mom. I have something to tell you. I'm undead. Now, I know you may have some preconceived notions about the undead. I know you may not be comfortable with the idea of me being undead. But I'm here to tell you that undead are just like you and me ... well, okay. Possibly more like me than you.
Gentlemen, you are, as i am, in search of a woman who, must have passed this way, for i see a corpse.
Semper fuckin' fi
Reaper, Reaper, Reaper ... All deeds that last are painted in blood.
White
Godiva, I unpeel --
Dead hands, dead stringencies.
People are strange. We're all morticians. Hey, what's on TV?
Each morning, before Jackie started her studies, she wrote on a clean piece of paper: Tarde venientibus ossa.
To the latecomers are left the bones.
Who underestimates is buried in the optimism of the deads. (Qui sous-estime s'enterre - Dans l'optimisme des morts.)
Maximus was cleaning his blade on the dead man's wolfskin. 'You promised him his life,' the Greek said. 'No, I said death was his last worry.' Maximus swung up on to Pale Horse. 'Is that not so for all of us?
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.
I am a dead man alive.
King dead. Me king
Alexander the Great found the philosopher looking attentively at a pile of human bones. Diogenes explained, I am searching for the bones of your father but cannot distinguish them from those of a slave.
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!
You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!
The dead have a presence.
A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk.
A Zombie. Okay. Whew. All right.
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.
A dead man has no age
grotesque countenance
It's my husband. I think - I think he's a zombie."
I smiled. "Believe it or not, I get this one a lot. Can you describe his behavior? Why do you think he's a zombie?"
She huffed. "He doesn't do anything! He sits on the sofa all day watching TV and that's it.
The body is a museum for memories. I am the Smithsonian.
What's for dinner?"
"Roast beef. I heard it was a woman's body buried on Hamilton Ranch and that her body had been mummified."
"Roast beef and mummified should never be used in the same sentence," he joked as he headed toward the refrigerator for a beer.
Private Zombie, did your mother have any children that lived?"
"Sir! Yes, sir!"
"I bet when you were born she took one look at you and tried to shove you back in!
Either a peaceful old age awaits me, or death flies round me with black wings.
[Lat., Seu me tranquilla senectus
Exspectat, seu mors atris circumvolat alis.]
ALL THE WORKS OF MEN ARE SUMMED UP IN THEIR GRAVES
Poor Desdemona! I am glad thy father's dead.
Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief
Shore his old thread in twain.
I have outlived the stillborn. I have outlasted my usefulness. I have become an abysmal ocean sponge, ten millennia old, and just as wise.
The dead are my dark matter, filling up impalpably the empty spaces of the world.
Tem loved the mortuaries, though no one he knew was dead. Still he would beg to go, to grasp the hand of any adult willing to wind down those plush-carpeted stairways, past the sleek vaults, inviting and bright.
Istam terra de fossam premat,
gravisque terrus impio capiti incubet!
(As for her, let her be buried deep in earth,
and heavy may the soil lie on her unholy head.)