Quotes About Sorrow

joy and sorrow are inseparable. . . together they come and when one sits alone with you . . remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

And much more am I sorrier for my good knights' loss than for the loss of my fair queen; for queens I might have enough, but such a fellowship of good knights shall never be together in no company.

No, it is too late, Robert, she said tonelessly. There has been too much pain for you and me. I cannot face making myself vulnerable again.

I am the one who has done wrong. Always. All my life, it seems. Bringing misery to everyone I have ever loved.

I did nothing to defend my own child, and now I fear that she will never recover.

She spread her hands over her face, but wearily this time. There were no tears left.

Her heart ached on.

The need to cry was almost a pain.

Good-bye, Henry, he said. You are young. You will forget this episode soon and be happy again as you were when I met you. I am sorry that I have saddened you, my love.

God, the light had gone out. He was in darkness.

She had lost all that was most precious in her life.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his aching head in his hands for a few moments. Deuce take it, I wish I were dead.

There was loneliness and emptiness without Teddy, she had said. He had news for her. There was always loneliness and emptiness. It was part of the condition of living.

I have the headache and am feeling blue-deviled.

Oh the ironies of life . . . They would be funny if they were not so very tragic.

My life came to an end the day I left you. I have lived in hell since then. Were those the feelings of a man who did not know what deep emotion was?

Perhaps it was the knowledge that she was beyond him that had made his love of her such a lasting, painful thing.

He had vaulted into the saddle and ridden down the driveway away from the sea and the cliffs, and away from her, without a backward glance. She had watched him, an ache in her heart, until a line of trees finally hid him from view.

He had held her close for a full, silent hour, rocking her against him, soothing her numb pain, crying for both her and himself, though she herself had been unable to know the relief of tears.

Christina. There was nothing else to say. Just her name and all the pain of its utterance.

Even when an individual tried to fake it, the eyes still echoed loss, love, fear, or hate.

How long ago did she die, Wyatt? Morgan pressed. Is it nine years now? Eight, Wyatt said, halfway between stubborn and sad. I promised to love her all my life, Morg. I meant to keep my word. That shut Morgan up, but Doc's eyes opened and he gazed at Wyatt for a long time. What? Wyatt asked. That is your ghost life, Wyatt, Doc told him, and closed his eyes again. That is the life you might have had. This is the life you've got.

Maybe it would be better to hold her winglike shadow safe in the lock of his memory than to touch the breathing girl and lose her.

Which ensures that life gets lived in miniature. In lieu of the large feelings—sorrow, fury, joy—I had their junior counterparts—anxiety, irritation, excitement. But