Quotes About Sorrow

My eyes filled with tears and I wept long and hard, unable, and unwilling, to stop.

El recuerdo es una invención desdichada.

J'aurais voulu pleurer, mais je sentais mon cÅ"ur plus aride que le désert.

What did he think? That time moved forward? No, for the good times it slipped out of your hands like water, but when things went wrong time stopped. It stopped and stared at you and never took its eyes away from what you'd done. I hope they hurt you in there. If you come looking for Susan, you will be sorry.

E finalmente dalla gola sino a quel momento chiusa, serrata, il grido gli niscì, ma più che un grido un alto lamento d'animale ferito al quale, immediate, fecero seguito le lacrime inarrestabili e liberatorie.

There is a misery of the body and a misery of the mind, and if the stars, whenever we looked at them, poured nectar into our mouths, and the grass became bread, we would still be sad. We live in a system that manufactures sorrow, spilling it out of its mill, the waters of sorrow, ocean, storm, and we drown down, dead, too soon.

It is not until Christians study the humility of Jesus as the very essence of His redemption, as the only true relationship to the Father, that the terrible lack of actual, heavenly humility will become a burden and a sorrow.

A white middle-aged American man walking around with his white middle-aged American sorrows? Jesus, I guess so. Arthur. Sorry to tell you this. It's a little hard to feel sorry for a guy like that. Even gay? Even gay.

He knows the absurdity of asking someone to explain love or sorrow. You can't point to it. It would be as futile, as unconveyable, as pointing at the sky and saying: that one, that star, there.

And Robert says nothing; he knows the absurdity of asking someone to explain love or sorrow. You can't point to it. It would be as futile, as unconveyable, as pointing at the sky and saying, "That one, that star, there.

he knows the absurdity of asking someone to explain love or sorrow. You can't point to it. It would be as futile, as unconveyable, as pointing at the sky and saying, "That one, that star, there.

But he can no more feel sorry for Swift—

Life is fraught with sorrows: no matter what we do, we will in the end die; we are, each of us, held in the solitude of an autonomous body; time passes, and what has been will never be again.

A Buddhist scholar once explained to me that most Westerners mistakenly think that Nirvana is what you arrive at when your suffering is over and only an eternity of happiness stretches ahead. But such bliss would always be shadowed by the sorrow of the past and would therefore be imperfect.

I što pogledam sve je pjesma i ?ega god se taknem sve je bol.

queen. You have power, but you have paid dearly for it. You have wealth, but it brings you no joy, for you are dressed even more simply than my mother. You can have anything you desire, and hundreds of servants obey your command, but you cannot retrieve the things you have lost—like your son. Your family.

Grief can have its own weightage. What is worse? The loss of a parent or one's own child?

I discover that it is possible to be angry with someone who has died. It is possible to hate yourself for being angry with someone who has died. It is possible to believe that you will die from grief, that somehow your breathing will catch itself up and simply stop. It is possible to believe that you could have stopped the terrible thing that happened at any time, if only you had known.

She'd cried over a broken heart before. She knew what that felt like, and it didn't feel like this. Her heart felt not so much broken as just ... empty. It felt like she was an outline empty in the middle. The outline cried senselessly for the absent middle. The past cried for the present that was nothing.

I killed her once and died for her many times and I still have nothing to show for it. I always search for her ; I always remember her. I carry the hope that someday she will remember me.

She got under the covers and put her arms around the bag. She could smell Tibby. It used to be she couldn't smell Tibby's smell in the way you couldn't smell your own; it was too familiar. But tonight she could. This was some living part of Tibby still here and she held on to it. There was more of Tibby with her here and now than in what she had seen in the cold basement room that day.

Quando anche le sue palpebre cominciarono a calare, Tibby si sdraiò con cautela, posando la testa sul cuscino, accanto a quella di Bailey. Sentiva il solletico leggero dei suoi capelli contro la guancia. Le lacrime le scivolarono fuori, scorsero oblique fino alle orecchie e sui capelli di Bailey. Sperava che andasse bene così. Sarebbe rimasta lì a tenere la mano di Bailey tutto il tempo, così lei non avrebbe avuto paura di non averne abbastanza

Shakespeare has united the powers of exciting laughter and sorrow not only in one mind, but in one composition.

Let Art and Genius weep.