Quotes About Sorrow

He cried like a man,not like a boy.Not like he was frustrated or hadn't gotten his way,but like life was bitter.Like his wounds couldn't be healed.

It tasted like salt and failure.

I can't even say sorry," she tells me. "There is not even a Scrabble word for how bad I feel.

My head and shoulders melted first, followed by my hips and knees. Before long I was a puddle, soaking into the pretty cotton prints. I drenched the quilt she never finished, rusted the metal parts of her sewing machine. I was pure liquid loss...

I'd think of these images - people dying, a city drowning - instead of thinking about Rosemary, dying, drowning.

In fact, the mark of tragedy became, with time, a mark of glamour.

My feelings leak out my eyes, crumpling my face, heave through my frame

My head and shoulders melted first, followed by my hips and knees. Before long I was a puddle, soaking into the pretty cotton prints. I drenched the quilt she never finished, rusted the metal parts of her sewing machine. I was pure liquid loss, then, for an hour or two. My grandmother, my grandmother. Gone forever, though I could smell her Chanel perfume on the fabrics.

I was pure liquid loss, then, for an hour or two.

I just broke up with someone. I am an egg yolk of misery.

Why do you hate yourself?" And before I know it, Gat is lying on the bed next to me. His cold fingers wrap around my hot ones, and his face is close to mine. He kisses me. "Because I want things I can't have," he whispers.

La tragedia no es glamurosa

There is not a scrabble word for how bad I feel." -We Were Liars

I have lost you, Gat, because of how desperately, desperately I fell in love.

Then he pulled out a handgun and shot me in the chest. I was standing on the lawn and I fell. The bullet hole opened wide and my heart rolled out of my rib cage and down into a flower bed.

In a world without melancholy, nightingales would start burping

In Europe life retreats out of the cold, and exquisite fireside myths have resulted—Balder, Persephone—but [in India] the retreat is from the source of life, the treacherous sun, and no poetry adorns it because disillusionment cannot be beautiful. Men yearn for poetry though they may not confess it; they desire that joy shall be graceful and sorrow august and infinity have a form, and India fails to accommodate them.

Oh, poor, poor fellow!' said Mrs. Elliot with a remorse that was sincere, though her congratulations would not have been.

So it's true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love.

Placing my head on my knees, I let the irrational tears fall unrestrained. I am crying over the loss of something I never had. How ridiculous. Mourning something that never was - my dashed hopes, my dashed dreams, and my soured expectations.

There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't there, without trying to invent it.

He lived on, miserable and misunderstood, as before, and increasingly lonely. One cannot write those words too often: Maurice's loneliness: it increased.

How indeed is it possible for one human being to be sorry for all the sadness that meets him on the face of the earth, for the pain that is endured not only by men, but by animals and plants, and perhaps by the stones?

Pray don't waste time mourning over me. There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't there, without trying to invent it. Good-bye.