Lasher Funeral Home Quotes

#1. I've got no idea when I am going to retire. Whenever they pick me up and take me to the funeral home, I guess. #Quote by Colonel Sanders

#2. Oh, they said God was dead, all those beatniks and snooty-ass Frenchmen. Not me. I knew better. I said to them, "Wait, boys! Don't break cover yet awhile. He might be faking. I mean, they thought Saddam was dead. And the novel. And Glenn Close in that last scene of Fatal Attraction." That's what I said. But did they listen? Ohh no. They went right ahead and organized God's funeral. Well, don't count your chickens before they come home to roost ... #Quote by Alan Moore

#3. The pride and obstinacy of millers and other insignificant people, whom you pass unnoticingly on the road every day, have their tragedy too; but it is of that unwept, hidden sort that goes on from generation to generation, and leaves no record - such tragedy, perhaps, as lies in the conflicts of young souls, hungry for joy, under a lot made suddenly hard to them, under the dreariness of a home where the morning brings no promise with it, and where the unexpectant discontent of worn and disappointed parents weighs on the children like a damp, thick air, in which all the functions of life are depressed; or such tragedy as lies in the slow or sudden death that follows on a bruised passion, though it may be a death that finds only a parish funeral. There are certain animals to which tenacity of position is a law of life - they can never flourish again, after a single wrench: and there are certain human beings to whom predominance is a law of life - they can only sustain humiliation so long as they can refuse to believe in it, and, in their own conception, predominate still. #Quote by George Eliot

#4. Then isn't this rather all a false funeral? Can't it help you to see that there is something wrong when all the dreams in this house-good or bad-had to depend on something that might never have happened if a man had not died? We always say at home: Accident was at the first and will be at the last a poor tree from which the fruits of life may bloom. #Quote by Lorraine Hansberry

#5. The value of Greek prose composition, he said, was not that it gave one any particular facility in the language that could not be gained as easily by other methods but that if done properly, off the top of one's head, it taught one to think in Greek. One's thought patterns become different, he said, when forced into the confines of a rigid and unfamiliar tongue. Certain common ideas become inexpressible; other, previously undreamt-of ones spring to life, finding miraculous new articulation. By necessity, I suppose, it is difficult for me to explain in English exactly what I mean. I can only say that an incendium is in its nature entirely different from the feu with which a Frenchman lights his cigarette, and both are very different from the stark, inhuman pur that the Greeks knew, the pur that roared from the towers of Ilion or leapt and screamed on that desolate, windy beach, from the funeral pyre of Patroklos.
Pur: that one word contains for me the secret, the bright, terrible clarity of ancient Greek. How can I make you see it, this strange harsh light which pervades Homer's landscapes and illumines the dialogues of Plato, an alien light, inarticulable in our common tongue? Our shared language is a language of the intricate, the peculiar, the home of pumpkins and ragamuffins and bodkins and beer, the tongue of Ahab and Falstaff and Mrs. Gamp; and while I find it entirely suitable for reflections such as these, it fails me utterly when I attempt to describe in it what #Quote by Donna Tartt

#6. Ah, much deluded! lay aside
Thy threats, and anger misapplied!
Art not afraid with sounds like these
To offend, where thou canst not appease?
Death is not (wherefore dream'st thou thus?)
The son of night and Erebus:
Not was of fell Erynnis born
On gulfs where Chaos rules forlorn.
But sent from God, his presence leaves,
To gather home his ripen'd sheaves,
To call encumber'd souls away
From fleshly bonds to boundless day,
(As when the winged hours excited,
And summon forth the morning light)
And each to convoy to her place
Before the Eternal Father's face. #Quote by John Milton

#7. When Malcolm X was assassinated I was working at the Apollo. They brought his body to the Unity Funeral Home, which was around the corner. #Quote by Etta James

#8. Now place yourself in the shoes of Clifford Runoalds, another African American victim of the Hearne drug bust.2 You returned home to Bryan, Texas, to attend the funeral of your eighteen-month-old daughter. Before the funeral services begin, the police show up and handcuff you. You beg the officers to let you take one last look at your daughter before she is buried. The police refuse. You are told by prosecutors that you are needed to testify against one of the defendants in a recent drug bust. You deny witnessing any drug transaction; you don't know what they are talking about. Because of your refusal to cooperate, you are indicted on felony charges. After a month of being held in jail, the charges against you are dropped. You are technically free, but as a result of your arrest and period of incarceration, you lose your job, your apartment, your furniture, and your car. Not to mention the chance to say good-bye to your baby girl. This is the War on Drugs. The #Quote by Michelle Alexander

#9. I said get out, damn it," Dad repeated, spittle flying from his mouth. "I won't have a sixteen-year-old boy bawl'n like a little girl all the way home. Man up or walk." Too much wine had left Dad's teeth and lips stained red, and Shane could smell the alcohol, even over the foul stench of Jackie's cigarette. His aunt had whispered an apology to Shane at the funeral reception, saying she'd only put wine out because she didn't think his dad would drink it. What she didn't realize was Dad had become such a raging alcoholic that he would've #Quote by N.W. Harris

#10. Some days you wake up changed. This was one for Starling, she could tell. What she had seen yesterday at the Potter Funeral Home had caused in her a small tectonic shift. Starling had studied psychology and criminology in a good school. In her life she had seen some of the hideously offhand ways in which the world breaks things. But she hadn't really known, and now she knew: sometimes the family of man produces, behind a human face, a mind whose pleasure is what lay on the porcelain table at Potter, West Virginia, in the room with the cabbage roses. Starling's first apprehension of that mind was worse than anything she could see on the autopsy scales. The knowledge would lie against her skin forever, #Quote by Thomas Harris

#11. She turned down her street once more, glaring at the garish lights someone had put up along their house. Might as well light the roof with "Santa Park Here". Sheesh. The closer she got to home, though, the lower her heart sank. The overly bright house looked suspiciously like ... No. Oh, no. He wouldn't. He had. Light up animated animals were dotted all over her lawn. The circle of life has apparently found our power outlet. And why the fuck is there a Star of David on my roof? She wasn't exactly the most church-going member of the community, but you'd think Simon would know what religion she was. After all, she knew exactly who was going to officiate at his funeral. She picked up her cell phone and called Emma. "I'm going to kill him. #Quote by Dana Marie Bell

#12. The shovel worked in and out of the light beams as the dirt hit him in the stomach, on his back, fell into his ears, his eyes, as I covered him along with the things that had made him: his walks, his rest, his eating when hungry, the stars he watched sometimes, the first day I brought him home, the first time he saw snow, and every second of his friendship, what he took with him into silence and stillness ... #Quote by Gerard Donovan

#13. Four days after his own funeral, Albert Wilkes came home for Tea. #Quote by Justin Richards

#14. There had never been a funeral in our town before, at least not during our lifetimes. The majority of dying had happened during the Second World War when we didn't exist and our fathers were impossibly skinny young men in black-and-white photographs - dads on jungle airstrips, dads with pimples and tattoos, dads with pinups, dads who wrote love letters to the girls who would become our mothers, dads inspired by K rations, loneliness and glandular riot in malarial air into poetic reveries that ceased entirely once they got back home. #Quote by Jeffrey Eugenides

#15. I made a mental note to write starlings in my "Southern Speak" notebook. I'd already started the second page, thanks to Faye and Bobbie. One corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. "I try. So, Churchville. Let me see the map."
I followed his directions, asking questions, until he drew a big circle around the funeral home. "That's it right there, just off 42. Or Buffalo Gap Highway. But you might not see any road signs. Out there things are a little...well, less posted. People just sort of know where they are. So look for these things." He drew in some more notes and--I'm not making this up--something like bugs with stick legs.
"What are those?" I asked, not intending to sound rude. "Roaches?"
"Those are cows. There's a pasture here."
"Oh. #Quote by Jennifer Rogers Spinola

#16. The Aftermath

When the fierce pure pleasure
has clawed through, ripped open
my tent of separateness,
I lay in my lover's arms, weeping
and exposed. I can't help seeing

my sister, new widow
whose heart hangs
heavy, a side of beef
in the ice box of her chest.
I imagine her entering
a bedroom like this, maples
flaming beyond the window
against a perfectly useless blue sky.

And then my mother-in-law
stops at the library on the way home
from her husband's funeral,
picks up the book they've been holding.
It sits in the passenger seat
while she stares at the windshield, stunned,
a bird flown into glass.

Even my friend whose wife hasn't died yet
appears in this sex-drenched air. Tears
pool in the shallows under his eyes.
If his soul were a tin can, it would be sliced,
the thick soup leaking out.

The night is soaked with suffering.
My dumb body, sprung open, can't tell
the difference between this blaze of pleasure
and the sorrow it drags in.
As I gaze out into the gathering darkness
it seems I almost comprehend
the mystery, glimpse the water of life
pouring through my form into theirs,
theirs back to mine, misery and ecstasy
swirled like the blue white planet
seen from space,

but it lasts less than a moment--
the arms of my own dear one
haul me back into my #Quote by Ellen Bass

#17. CREMATION OF THE BODY IS FINAL. - SIGN IN FUNERAL HOME #Quote by Darynda Jones

#18. Instead of slapping her head, I do what they tell you to do: count to ten. Only I do it the gifted way: 123+456+789+10. When your sister has hurtled you swerving into the darkness, stranded you at a funeral home, and threatens to get you in trouble, just stop and count to 1,378 before you respond. #Quote by Jo Ann Beard

#19. Every morning I walk by a funeral home, and that's my productivity hack for how to make sure your to-do list is properly prioritized. #Quote by Anil Dash

#20. I walked through the cemetery holding a bouquet of yellow and red flowers with brown combat boots, feeling grateful and bitter the sun was shining so brightly.

I felt an urge to run, as well as a magnet to reach the group of people surrounding you.

I wanted to be wearing white.

I wanted to be walking down an isle with flowers and for this to be a different ceremony.

I wanted to curl up beside the earth that held you, the pink and yellow petals, strings of ground hanging loosely in the wind and be beside you.

I was angry you were buried, I resented the earth falling upon you. Each scoop felt heavy and indefinite.
I'm not ready to know this is definite.

I watched your chest, in a white linen shirt last night wishing for your chest to rise.

But when I kissed your forehead it was cold. And when I held your hands it wasn't you. It was a shell. It was a vessel. It was empty.

The first time I heard your new music it was by accident and your voice drove me from your home into hysterics. But when I entered your home and it played with your casket it was welcome.

I read your letter with your mom and dad out loud beside you, and halfway through "spelunking in your soul" started to play.

That was a gift, thank you.
Today walking back from the funeral a green and black beetle landed in my hair and crawled onto my finger. I just had a bad moment with a woman in your life #Quote by Janne Robinson

#21. Some men go a lifetime and never have their kid blow up a car, but I have a daughter who's knocked off three cars and burned down a funeral home. Maybe that's some kind of record. #Quote by Janet Evanovich

#22. I grew up in a funeral home. Both my parents were morticians. #Quote by Tamara Tunie

#23. The home funeral - caring for the dead ourselves - changes our relationship to grieving. If you have been married to someone for 50 years, why would you let someone take them away the moment they die? #Quote by Caitlin Doughty

#24. I don't want to go into a fridge at an undertaker's. I want you to keep me at home until the funeral. Please can someone sit with me in case I get lonely? I promise not to scare you. #Quote by Jenny Downham

#25. He does love prophesying a misfortune, does the average British ghost. Send him out to prognosticate trouble to somebody, and he is happy. Let him force his way into a peaceful home, and turn the whole house upside down by foretelling a funeral, or predicting a bankruptcy, or hinting at a coming disgrace, or some other terrible disaster, about which nobody in their senses would want to know sooner than they could possible help, and the prior knowledge of which can serve no useful purpose whatsoever, and he feels that he is combining duty with pleasure. He would never forgive himself if anybody in his family had a trouble and he had not been there for a couple of months beforehand, doing silly tricks on the lawn or balancing himself on somebody's bedrail.

("Introduction" to TOLD AFTER SUPPER) #Quote by Jerome K. Jerome

#26. Nine Years Under is a sparkling debut
brimming with love and bursting with life. Booker's Baltimore is equal parts The Wire and The Cosby show. She doesn't shrink from the realities of life in an inner city funeral home, but she is also a loving witness, documenting the big hearted community that takes care of its own. Told with compassion, wit, and good old fashioned story telling, Sheri Booker gives us unforgettable characters who will make you laugh right up until they break your heart. #Quote by Tayari Jones

#27. Yesterday, I went to see Gladwell, who is home for a few days. A terrible blow has struck them, his young sister, so full of life, with dark eyes and hair, had fallen from a horse at Blackheath; they found her unconscious and she died five hours later, without regaining consciousness. She was seventeen years old. As soon as I heard the news, I went to see them, knowing that Gladwell was home. I left at eleven o'clock; and had a long walk to Lewisham. I crossed London from one end to the other and didn't arrive at my destination until almost five o'clock. They had all just come back from the funeral; the whole household was in mourning. I was happy to have come, but confused, truly upset by the spectacle of a pain so great and so venerable. "Blessed are they that mourn, blessed are they that sorrow, but always rejoice, blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God. Blessed are those that find love on their road, who are bound together by God, for to them all things will work together for their good." I chatted for a long time, until evening, with Harry, about everything, the kingdom of God, the Bible; we chatted further, we walked up and down the station platform. Never will we forget the moments before we said goodbye. #Quote by Vincent Van Gogh

#28. It had been learned that my mother had died recently at the home. Inquiries had then been made in Marengo. The investigators had learned that I had "shown insensitivity" the day of Maman's funeral. "You understand," my lawyer said, "it's a little embarrassing for me to have to ask you this. But it's very important. And it will be a strong argument for the prosecution if I can't come up with some answers. #Quote by Albert Camus

#29. While I was at the funeral home, seeing my father for the final time, one of Darby's daughters gave me a box my dad left for me. When I opened it, it contained a silver bracelet, presumably a gift he'd gotten me for the wedding. Inscribed on the front were my initials, and as I looked at the back of the bracelet, I started crying even harder. My dad had inscribed, "To the man that you've become, and the son you'll always be. #Quote by Daniel Bryan

#30. The biggest problem is the funerals that don't exist. People call the funeral home, they pick up the body, they mail the ashes to you, no grief, no happiness, no remembrance, no nothing. That happens more often than it doesn't in the United States. #Quote by Caitlin Doughty

#31. I used to work in a funeral home to feel good about myself, just the fact that I was breathing. #Quote by Chuck Palahniuk

#32. When Charlie arrived home from his mother's funeral, he was met at the door by two very large very enthusiastic canines, who , undistracted by keeping watch over Sophie's love hostage, were now able to visit the full measure of their affection and joy upon their returning master. It is generally agreed, and in fact stated in the bylaws of the American Kennel Club, that you have not been truly dog-humped until you have been double-dog-humped by a pair of four-hundred-pouund hounds from hell (Section 5, paragraph 7: Standards of Humping and Ass-dragging). And despite having used an extra-strength antiperspirant that very morning before leaving Sedona, Charlie found that getting poked repeatedly in the armpits by two damp devil-dog dicks was leaving him feeling less than fresh.
Sophie, call them off. Call them off."
The puppies are dancing with Daddy," Sophie giggled. "Dance, Daddy! #Quote by Christopher Moore

#33. My mother died today. Or maybe yesterday, I don't know. I received a telegram from the old people's home: "Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Very sincerely yours." That doesn't mean anything. It might have been yesterday. #Quote by Albert Camus

#34. You owe me!" -Stephanie
"Why do I owe you?" -Joe
"I caught your no good cousin." -Stephanie
"Yeah and in the process you burned down a funeral home, and damaged thousands of dollars of government property." -Joe
"Well if you are going to be picky about it ... " -Stephanie #Quote by Janet Evanovich

#35. A hundred and fifty years before, when the parochial disagreements between Earth and Mars had been on the verge of war, the Belt had been a far horizon of tremendous mineral wealth beyond viable economic reach, and the outer planets had been beyond even the most unrealistic corporate dream. Then Solomon Epstein had built his little modified fusion drive, popped it on the back of his three-man yacht, and turned it on. With a good scope, you could still see his ship going at a marginal percentage of the speed of light, heading out into the big empty. The best, longest funeral in the history of mankind. Fortunately, he'd left the plans on his home computer. The Epstein Drive hadn't given humanity the stars, but it had delivered the planets. #Quote by James S.A. Corey

#36. My world had stopped, but the outside one kept going. On Saturday, one week after the murder, Bubba had a basketball game. He wanted to go. I wanted him to go, too.
And if he went, I was going, too. Even though I hadn't been out of the house except to go to the funeral home.
A friend picked Bubba up early so he could get there for the pregame warm-up. When it came time to leave to watch the game, I decided to run rather than drive. It was five minutes by car, and I thought it wouldn't take long to trot over.
I was wrong about that.
Four or five of the men at the house accompanied me, including my brother-in-law Jeff, who had just gone through an operation and was still recovering. I'm sure his rehab plan didn't include running alongside a half-crazy woman, but he did anyway, without a complaint or even a "Hey, slow down."
We got to the church gym just in time for the game. I felt such pure joy watching Bubba play. It was one of the very few times that whole month that I was able to completely forget my grief and feel fully myself. They were fleeting moments, but they loom large now in my memory, little islands of relief in a sea of dread.
We all walked home. The men tossed a ball back and forth with Bubba. They couldn't replace Chris, but they provided an enormous, unstated reassurance to Bubba that he would never be alone. #Quote by Taya Kyle

#37. We stopped you from going, didn't we? Me and Shiva. Our birth?"
Don't be silly. Can you imagine me giving up this?" he said sweeping his hand to indicate family, Missing, the home he'd made out of a bungalow. "I've been blessed. My genius was to know long ago that money alone wouldn't make me happy. Or maybe that's my excuse for not leaving you a huge fortune! I certainly could have made more money if that had been my goal. But one thing I won't have is regrets. My VIP patients often regret so many things on their deathbeds. They regret the bitterness they'll leave in people's hearts. They realize the no money, no church service, no eulogy, no funeral procession no matter how elaborate, can remove the legacy of a mean spirit.

Of course, you and I have seen countless deaths among the poor. Their only regret surely is being born poor, suffering from birth to death. You know, in the book of Job, Job says to God, 'You should've taken me straight from the womb to the tomb! Why the in-between part, why life, if it was just to suffer?' Something like that. For the poor, death is at least the end of suffering. #Quote by Abraham Verghese

#38. She wondered at the strangeness of the day, how it had begun with death and ended with sex. But was it that strange? Her best night with McQueen, the one night she cherished most in her memories, had come when she'd returned home after attending her aunt's funeral. McQueen had surprised her with his kindness during that difficult time, hiring a car to take her there and bring her back, sending a spray of roses, orchids and lilies to cover her aunt's casket. He'd even been waiting at her apartment when she arrived. He'd wanted sex from her, of course, but that night she'd wanted it from him even more. She'd spent three days in the company of death. And sex was almost the opposite of a funeral. A funeral said "life ends." Sex said "life goes on. #Quote by Tiffany Reisz

#39. I palmed my cell and looked down at the screen, triple-checking the address that Boogie had texted me, just in case.

Yep, it was still correct.

I opened my text messaging app before I forgot and shot my sister a new message. She still hadn't replied to me about needing a date to the quinceañera.

Me: I'm going into a house I've never been in before. If I don't text you back in an hour, call the cops. The address is 555 Rose Hill Lane.

I stopped, thought about it, and sent her another message.

Me: Don't invite anyone I don't like to my funeral.

Then I sent her another one.

Me: And don't forget to drop my laptop in a swamp if something happens.

I thought about it for another second.

Me: And don't forget you're the only one I want to clean out my nightstand. Wear gloves and don't judge me.

I slipped my phone back into my purse as I stopped in front of what had to be at least an eight-thousand-square-foot home and eyed the combination of brick and stone walls, telling myself that I had to do this. Boogie had asked.

And the sooner I did this, the sooner I could go home. #Quote by Mariana Zapata