How those poor souls people crammed themselves into the lifeboats, all classes mixed together I shall never know. I experienced something similar in the Opera House last Tuesday evening, though at least we were dry. Poor Mr Ismay; I hear he weeps at the mere sight of an ice cube

Ghosts are mere memories of lives passed, granted a reassuring afterlife, manifested by the pleading, grasping, fearful imagination of our own mortality.

If ghosts are real, death is not.

The séance had made its impression, not so much on my senses, but on the very imagination of my soul.

Death is a beginning.

How does it feel, to see a dying child? One does not feel at all for there is nothing in the mind to make sense of it. Nothing, but one's own death.

We fear the dead, when really, we ought to be far more afraid of the living.

Women need space to grieve, not husbands.

People only ever doubt certainties, otherwise, where’s the sport?

One’s consciousness passes into a new realm on the brink of death, whether the soul does so or not. Anger, jealousy, hatred, ambition, regret, none of them matter in the end.