“Don't accuse me of being morbid when I'm merely the product of a culture that buries the bones of the ones they love in pretty, manicured flower gardens so they can keep them nearby and go talk to them whenever they feel troubled or depressed. That's morbid. Not to mention bizarre. Dogs bury bones, too.”

“I am the archaeologist of love. I’m digging for the bones of a loved one I shot and buried decades ago.”

“I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.The evil that men do lives after them;The good is oft interred with their bones”

“Black is too morbid; red will set them on edge; pink is too juvenile; orange is freakish”

“We keep on burying our dead/We keep on planting their bones in the ground/But they won't grow/The sun doesn't help/The rain doesn't help.”

“In our memories, there is a graveyard where we bury our dead. They all lie there together, the loved ones and the ones we hated, friends and foes and kin, with no distinction among them. We have to mourn every one of them, because our memories have made them as much a part of us as our bones or our skin. If we don't, we've no right to remember anything at all.”