Quotes About Sorrow

i miss you so much it's giving me a pain in my pancreas.

I'll go to Venice and drown my sorrows.

Once skin touched tile and part of her soul died, she knew what slippers were for.

People always talk about this like it's some lurid slasher movie," Allison went on. "I lost my sister. Some bastard took my sister from me. I feel like Carson used her memory, gave us that reading room, to try to worm his way in. He can go to hell. But I didn't mean to catch you in the crossfire.

His glance was like a plea, like the cry for help of a man who could never cry.

Again and again as we discussed Lolita in that class, our discussions were colored by my students' hidden personal sorrows and joys. Like tearstains on a letter, these forays into the hidden and the personal shaded all our discussions of Nabokov. And more and more I thought of that butterfly; what linked us so closely was this perverse intimacy of victim and jailer.

Because her name is not Lolita; her real name is Dolores, which as you know in Latin means `dolor.' So her real name is associated with sorrow and with anguish and with innocence. While Lolita becomes a sort of lightheaded, seductive and airy name, the Lolita of our novel is both of these at the same time. And in our culture here today, we only associate it with one aspect of that little girl, and the crassest interpretation of her.

This is how I read Lolita. Again and again as we discussed Lolita in that class, our discussions were colored by my students' hidden personal sorrows and joys. Like tearstains on a letter, these forays into the hidden and the personal shaded all our discussions of Nabokov. And more and more I thought of that butterfly; what linked us so closely was this perverse intimacy of victim and jailer.

The University of Tehran had become the seat of too much disappointment, too much sorrow and hurt. Never again would I rush so innocently, so eagerly, to a class as I did in those days at the dawn of the revolution.

But she wasn't prepared for the loneliness. It was constant, like a shortness of breath

I held my mother's hand, making sure she was comfortable before she settled in to rest. Then I went back to the hotel room and cried.

On top of my sorrow, I felt a great shame.

Nobody ever tells you the truth about loss. You don't only lose someone you love, you lose a part of yourself as well. Your heart. Your humanity.

Holding his icy hands, she slid for a moment into the outer fringes of the healing trance and whispered to him by his inner name. But it was as if she called at the head of a descending trail along which he had long since passed—there was no answer.

My little beast, my eyes, my favorite stolen egg. Listen. To live is to be marked. To live is to change, to acquire the words of a story, and that is the only celebration we mortals really know. In perfect stillness, frankly, I've only found sorrow.

The substance of grief is not imaginary. It's as real as rope or the absence of air, and like both those things it can kill.

It wasn't all a waste," she told him over and over, holding on. Some things they got right, she was sure of that. The children. And for all the rest they wept, a merged keening that felt bottomless. For the years and years of things that didn't exist, fantasies of flight where there was no flight. Nothing, really, but walking away on your own two feet. She felt tears frozen on her face.

It ran deeper than that. I'd lost what there was to lose: first my mother and then my baby. Nothing you love will stay. Hallie could call that attitude a crutch, but she didn't know, she hadn't loved and lost so deeply. As Loyd said, she'd never been born—not into life as I knew it. Hallie could still risk everything.

a husband quits a wife, leaving her with her naked body curled around the emptied-out mine of her womb. I know people.

All hope and future lost in a day.

The substance of grief is not imaginary. It's as real as rope or the absence of air, and like both those things it can kill.

There was a time when I didn't seem to need such things, when I would have been amused and perhaps even vaguely disgusted at the notion of living like some sort of psychic vampire, a lingering revenant pressed up against one-way glass, looking with forlorn and futile eyes at the ordinary life fate had denied him.

turn aside her sorrow with the sword" (ferroque averte dolorem;

Ella llora, insensata, porque ella ha vivido! ¡Y porque vive! Pero, lo que ella deplora Sobre todo, lo que la hace temblar hasta las rodillas, Es que mañana, ¡ah! ¡tendrá que vivir todavía! ¡Mañana, pasado mañana y siempre! — ¡Como nosotros!