Cemeteries used to be nice and quiet. Now they're teeming with life.
When you're dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.
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
The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.
One grave in every graveyard belongs to the ghouls. Wander any graveyard long enough and you will find it - water stained and bulging, with cracked or broken stone, scraggly grass or rank weeds about it, and a feeling, when you reach it, of abandonment. It may be colder than the other gravestones, too, and the name on the stone is all too often impossible to read. If there is a statue on the grave it will be headless or so scabbed with fungus and lichens as to look like fungus itself. If one grave in a graveyard looks like a target for petty vandals, that is the ghoul-gate. If the grave wants to make you be somewhere else, that is the ghoul-gate.
For as much as I hate the cemetery, Iβve been grateful itβs here, too. I miss my wife. Itβs easier to miss her at a cemetery, where sheβs never been anything but dead, than to miss her in all the places where she was alive.
It's like a memorial to Atlantis or Lyonesse: these are the stone buoys that mark a drowned world.
To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.
The Westwood Cemetery is just a few blocks from my home, and a number of my very dear friends are buried there.
Every man should keep a fair-sized cemetery in which to bury the faults of his friends.
The cemetery of the victims of human cruelty in our century is extended to include yet another vast cemetery, that of the unborn.
The wing of the Falcon brings to the king, the wing if the crow brings him to the cemetery.
Because of his military service, Dad was buried in Arlington National Cemetery.
There's no reason to be the richest man in the cemetery. You can't do any business from there.
No man wants more war if he's planned memorial services for fallen comrades, carried their flag-draped caskets off a plane, and buried them at Arlington National Cemetery.
Kennedy had been assassinated a month or so before. So we walked to the grave of John Kennedy and ended our walking symbolically at the Arlington National Cemetery.
