“Fidel Castro is dead!”
Tweet https://twitter.com/realDonaldTrump/status/802499192237080576 mentioning Castro's death (26 November 2016)
2010s, 2016, November
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Donald J. Trump 904
45th President of the United States of America 1946Related quotes
“Let the dead bury the dead? But, the dead can bury no one.”
2010s, Socialism's Legacy (2011)
(7th October 1826) The Tumuli
The London Literary Gazette, 1826
Context: For four hundred years the human race has not made a step but what has left its plain vestige behind. We enter now upon great centuries. The sixteenth century will be known as the age of painters, the seventeenth will be termed the age of writers, the eighteenth the age of philosophers, the nineteenth the age of apostles and prophets. To satisfy the nineteenth century, it is necessary to be the painter of the sixteenth, the writer of the seventeenth, the philosopher of the eighteenth; and it is also necessary, like Louis Blane, to have the innate and holy love of humanity which constitutes an apostolate, and opens up a prophetic vista into the future. In the twentieth century war will be dead, the scaffold will be dead, animosity will be dead, royalty will be dead, and dogmas will be dead; but Man will live. For all there will be but one country—that country the whole earth; for all there will be but one hope—that hope the whole heaven.
Address to the Workman's Congress at Marseille http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Victor_Hugo%27s_Address_to_the_Workman%27s_Congress_at_Marseille (1879)
“Is anyone who's supposed to be dead actually dead?”
Source: Shadowfever
“I am dead: dead, but in the Elysian fields.”
Source: Remark to Lord Aberdare on being welcomed to the House of Lords (1876), cited by Stanley Weintraub, Disraeli: A Biography (1993), p. 563.
“The dead are specters of the living, but the living are specters of the dead.”
Light (1919), Ch. XIV - The Ruins
Context: I am not in pain. I am extraordinarily calm; I am drunk with tranquillity. Are they dead, all — those? I do not know. The dead are specters of the living, but the living are specters of the dead. Something warm is licking my hand. The black mass which overhangs me is trembling. It is a foundered horse, whose great body is emptying itself, whose blood is flowing like poor touches of a tongue on to my hand.