Quotes About Sorrow

To the Greeks, work was a curse and nothing else. Their name for it—ponos—has the same root as the Latin poena, sorrow

I kissed him, trying to bring him back. I kissed him and let my lips rest against his so that our breath mingled and the tears from my eyes became salt on his skin, and I told myself that, somewhere, tiny particles of him would become tiny particles of me, ingested, swallowed, alive, perpetual. I wanted to press every bit of me against him. I wanted to will something into him. I wanted to give him every bit of life I felt and force him to live.

And then, just like that, my heart broke. My face crumpled, my composure went and I held him tightly and I stopped caring that he could feel the shudder of my sobbing body because grief swamped me. It overwhelmed me and tore at my heart and my stomach and my head and it pulled me under, and I couldn't bear it. I honestly thought I couldn't bear it.

Losing him was like having a hole shot straight through me, a painful, constant reminder, an absence I could never fill.

She does not want to feel even the faintest temptation to call his mobile number, as she had done obsessively for the first year after his death so she could hear his voice on the answering service. Most days now his loss is a part of her, an awkward weight she carries around, invisible to everyone else, subtly altering the way she moves through the day. But today, the Anniversary of the day he died, is a day when all bets are off.

Most days now his loss is a part of her, an awkward weight she carries around, invisible to everyone else, subtly altering the way she moves through the day.

She couldn't believe losing someone you had known such a short time could feel like losing part of yourself, that it could make food taste wrong and colors seem dull.

How could I explain to this girl what Will and I had been to each other, the way I felt that no person in the world had ever understood me like he did or ever would again? How could she understand that losing him was like having a hole shot straight through me, a painful, constant reminder, an absence I could never fill?

I saw that pretty much everyone bore the brutal imprint of love, whether it was lost, whipped away from them, or simply vanished into a grave.

So with the loss of my family as well as the man I had loved, every thread that had linked me to who I was had been abruptly cut. I felt as if I had simply floated off, untethered, to some unknown universe.

She cried like someone heartbroken.

It is the death of hope that comes as the greatest relief

Sometimes she woke up speaking his name. Sometimes she wondered how it were possible to be so far from the sea and still feel as if she were drowning.

gravely. "You know, you can't make someone love you again. No matter how much you might want it. Sometimes, unfortunately, the timing is simply . . . off.

Most days now his loss is a part of her, an awkward weight she carries around, invisible to everyone else.

I told myself that, somewhere, tiny particles of him would become tiny particles of me, ingested, swallowed, alive, perpetual. I wanted to press every bit of me against him. I wanted to will something into him. I wanted to give him every bit of life I felt and force him to live. I realized I was afraid of living without him.

sobs that contained the death of dreams and the dread knowledge of months of heartbreak ahead.

and the look she gave me was far too wise for her age and utterly heartbreaking.

I can't delete my brother's voice mail message. I have a little listen to his voice when I feel like I'm going to forget what he sounds like.

It was painful to see the best of him directed at someone else.

You know, you can't make someone love you again. No matter how much you might want it. Sometimes, unfortunately, the timing is simply . . . off.

I realized, now I could see him in the light, that he looked really, properly ill and I felt terrible for having failed to grasp it.

De som älskade mest, de som var av kärlek besatta, det var dem som frosten tog.

There is, after all, a kind of happiness in unhappiness, if it's the right unhappiness.