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6384ce4
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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.
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death
graveyard
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Neil Gaiman |
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e3b4c57
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"But," expostulated Josiah Worthington. "But. A human child. A living child. I mean. I mean, I mean. This is a graveyard, not a nursery, blast it."
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josiah-worthington
graveyard
neil-gaiman
ghost
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Neil Gaiman |
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738e2b8
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"She glanced around at the tombstones. "You're surrounded by death here. Way too depressing. You really might want to think about getting another job." "You see death and sadness in these sunken patches of dirt, I see lives lived fully and the good deeds of past generations influencing the future ones."
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inspiration
death
life
good-deeds
graveyard
caretaker
tombstones
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David Baldacci |
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afa2f60
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As usual, he saves his wife's for last. He leans on the cane and he looks at the headstone and he thinks about many things. Taffy. He thinks about taffy. He thinks it would take his teeth out now, but he would eat it anyhow, if it meant eating it with her.
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headstone
taffy
widower
humour
sacrifice
death
love
graveyard
memory
teeth
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Mitch Albom |
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eb818d1
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"Seeing that I would never manage to fall asleep, I arose, lit a candle, and after dressing went outside. Beneath the dull glow of the winter moon the snow glowed like pale blue china. The sidewalks sparkled weakly beneath the rays of the flickering street lamps; the benumbed streets slumbered forlornly. I walked, passing one corner after the other, and suddenly found myself on the edge of town. Further, beyond the square, an endless expanse began to glisten with a somber silverness. I stopped just before the gates. My intent gaze could distinguish nothing in the distant white expanse. Before me rose the imposing bank of the Volga like a gigantic snowdrift. So barren and uninviting was this deserted view resembling eternity that my heart contracted. I turned to the right and approached quite close to the monastery enclosure. From behind the bronze gates, glimmered a dense net of crosses and gravestones. The ancient eyes of the church gazed forbiddingly down on me, and with an eerie feeling I thought of the monks sleeping at this moment in tomb-like cells together with corpses. Were any of them thinking of the hour of death on this night? ("Lamia")"
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city-at-night
volga
russian-literature
graveyard
night
snow
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Boris Sadovskoy |
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31331dd
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Like weddings, funerals are about unity. Funerals are the unity of a person with the sweet hereafter, assuming that one believes in such a thing.
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unity
living
death
mortuary
undertaker
graveyard
wedding
funeral
dying
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Rebecca McNutt |