Quotes About Sorrow

The world is beautiful and dangerous, and joyful and said, and ungrateful and giving, and full of so, so many things. The world is new and it is old. It is big and it is small. The world is fierce and it is kind, and we, every one us, are in it.

Du moment, madame, où cette mère dénaturée ôte ce qu'elle donna

Old Scratch,1 but laws-a-me! he's my own dead sister's boy, poor thing, and I ain't got

On the inquest it was shown that Buck Fanshaw, in the delirium of a wasting typhoid fever, had taken arsenic, shot himself through the body, cut his throat, and jumped out of a four-story window and broken his neck—and after due deliberation, the jury, sad and tearful, but with intelligence unblinded by its sorrow, brought in a verdict of death by the visitation of God. What could the world do without juries?

And such a luxury to him was this petting of his sorrows, that he could not bear to have any worldly cheeriness or any grating delight intrude upon it; it was too sacred for such contact...

The secret source of humour itself is not joy, but sorrow. There is no humour in heaven.

Tom gets by, Navidson succeeds. Tom just wants to be, Navidson must become. And yet despite such obvious differences, anyone who looks past Tom's wide grin and considers his eyes will find surprisingly deep pools of sorrow. Which is how we know they are brothers, because like Tom, Navidson's eyes share the same water.

La Vita è la morte che all'Amore resta quando l'Amore alla fine s'arresta.

wondering then if I would ever see her again, sensing I wouldn't, hoping senses were wrong but still not knowing.

If Sorrow is deep regret over someone loved , there is nothing but regret here

Finally, in October 1945, a man with swampy eyes, feathers of hair, and a clean-shaven face walked into the shop. He approached the counter. Is there someone here by the name of Leisel Meminger? Yes, she's in the back, said Alex. He was hopeful, but he wanted to be sure. May I ask who is calling on her? Leisel came out. They hugged and cried and fell to the floor.

Max lifted his head, with great sorrow and great astonishment. 'There were stars,' He said. 'They burned my eyes.' ...from a Himmel street window, he wrote, the stars set fire to my eyes.

The last time I saw her was red. The sky was like soup, boiling and stirring. In some places, it was burned. There were black crumbs, and pepper, streaked across the redness.

She closes the door completely, and I crouch there. I allow myself to fall forward and rest my head on the door frame. My breath bleeds. My heartbeat drowns my ears.

He was a wasteland in a suit; he was bent-postured, he was broken.

Our own place is mall perhaps, but when your old man is eaten by his own shadow, you realise that maybe in every house, something so savage and sad and brilliant is standing up, without the world even seeing it. Maybe that's what these pages of words are about: Bringing the world to the window.

He was hanging from one of the rafters in a laundry up near Frau Diller's. Another human pendulum. Another clock, stopped.

He was skinny with soft hair, and his thick, murky eyes watched as the stranger played one more song in the heavy room. From face to face, he looked on as the man played and the woman wept. The different notes handled her eyes. Such sadness.

a young man was hung by a rope made of Stalingrad snow

A veces me mata ver cómo muere la gente.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Papa's hands tightened on the splintery wood. I'm an idiot. No, Papa. You're just a man.

Immediately. Her brother was next to her. He whispered for her to stop, but he, too, was dead, and not worth listening to. He died in a train. They buried him in the snow.

You see? Even death has a heart.

She could only hope they could read the depth of sorrow in her face, to recognize that it was true, and not fleeting.