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H. L. Mencken

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Sunday — A day given over by Americans to wishing that they themselves were dead and in Heaven, and that their neighbors were dead and in Hell.

 
H. L. Mencken

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I don't believe she's in Heaven and I don't believe she's in a better place. She's dead and when we're dead, we're gone. There are no blinding lights, there is no happy music, there are no angels waiting to greet us. St. Peter is not at the Pearly Gates with a big fat f**king book, our friends and Relatives are not holding a seat for us at a divine dinner table, we do not get a tour of Heaven. We're dead and that is it. No more.

 
James Frey
 

You have been tried by twelve good men and true, not of your peers but as high above you as heaven is of hell, and they have said you are guilty. Time will pass and seasons will come and go. Spring with its wavin’ green grass and heaps of sweet-smellin’ flowers on every hill and in every dale. Then sultry Summer, with her shimmerin’ heat-waves on the baked horizon. And Fall, with her yeller harvest moon and the hills growin’ brown and golden under a sinkin’ sun. And finally Winter, with its bitin’, whinin’ wind, and all the land will be mantled with snow. But you won’t be here to see any of ‘em; not by a damn sight, because it’s the order of this court that you be took to the nearest tree and hanged by the neck til you’re dead, dead, dead, you olive-colored son of a billy goat.

 
Roy Bean
 

Lo, the dead shall rise to heaven!
Brethren hail the blest decree;
Every sin shall be forgiven,
Hell forever cease to be!

 
Friedrich von Schiller
 

Well saturday gives what sunday steals,
And a child is born on his brother's heels,
Come sunday morn the first-born is dead,
In a shoebox tied with a ribbon of red.

 
Nick Cave
 

Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, Right Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with Heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day.

 
Charles Dickens
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