You have a choice. Live or die. Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. To be or read more

You have a choice. Live or die. Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. To be or not to be.

If suicide be supposed a crime, it is only cowardice can impel us
to it. If it be no read more

If suicide be supposed a crime, it is only cowardice can impel us
to it. If it be no crime, both prudence and courage should
engage us to rid ourselves at once of existence when it becomes a
burden. It is the only way that we can then be useful to
society, by setting an example which, if imitated, would preserve
every one his chance for happiness in life, and would effectually
free him from all danger or misery.

Ah, yes, the sea is still and deep,
All things within its bosom sleep!
A single step, read more

Ah, yes, the sea is still and deep,
All things within its bosom sleep!
A single step, and all is o'er,
A plunge, a bubble, and no more.

Not many artists commit suicide by leaping off the pinnacle of success.

Not many artists commit suicide by leaping off the pinnacle of success.

The common damn'd shun their society.

The common damn'd shun their society.

Suicide sometimes proceeds from cowardice, but not always; for cowardice sometimes prevents it; since as many live because they are read more

Suicide sometimes proceeds from cowardice, but not always; for cowardice sometimes prevents it; since as many live because they are afraid to die, as die because they are afraid to live

Against self-slaughter
There is a prohibition so divine
That cravens my weak hand.

Against self-slaughter
There is a prohibition so divine
That cravens my weak hand.

Who doubting tyranny, and fainting under
Fortune's false lottery, desperately run
To death, for dread of death; read more

Who doubting tyranny, and fainting under
Fortune's false lottery, desperately run
To death, for dread of death; that soul's most stout,
That, bearing all mischance, dares last it out.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
read more

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin?