Quotes About Sorrow

This is not a world I ever wanted to know.

I wept for me, for my sister, for things I couldn't even begin to put into words, and might never be able to explain. But it felt something like this: I used to walk on my feet. Now all I knew how to do was crawl. And I wasn't sure how long it was going to take for me to get up off my knees and regain my balance, but I suspected that when I did, I would never walk the same way again.

Death's an insult.

You lose someone you love more than you love yourself, and you get a crash course in mortality. You lie awake night after night, wondering if you really believe in heaven and hell and finding all kinds of reasons to cling to faith, because you can't bear to believe they aren't out there somewhere, a few whispered words of a prayer away.

I was hunting the monster that had killed my sister. I was the monster that had killed his brother.

My world began falling apart with the death of my sister, and hasn't stopped since. And it's not just my world that's in trouble; it's your world, too.

What no one tells you is that when someone you love dies, you lose them twice. Once to death, the second time to acceptance, and you don't walk that long, dark passage between the two alone. Grief takes every shuffling, unwilling step with you, offering a seductive bouquet of memories that can only blossom south of sanity. You can stay there, nose buried in the petals of the past. But you're never really alive again. Spend enough time with ghosts, you become one.

The thought that she'd left him by choice had driven him mad. But she hadn't. She'd been taken. He'd loved her for all time. Before she was made. After he'd believed she was gone. Sunshine to his ice. Frost to her fever. I wished them forever. You, too, beautiful girl. The Unseelie King was gone.

Still, you'd lose them again, one way or another, because they were meant to be dead.

Your joy can fill you only as deeply your sorrow has carved you.

Death is not seductive. It does not come silk-clad and sweet-smelling as I did for my chosen. It is lonely and cold and merciless. It takes everything from you, before it finally takes you.

Far away, I can hear Mouflon, our last sheep, bleating in the dark. I wonder if Annie is still out to protect her, still scouring the woods in barefoot pursuit of those dogs. I feel sorry for Annie, alone with a rabid pack of her own delusions. I feel sorrier for Mouflon. She's alone with Annie.

They greyhound whine with her, distressed by her distress. Sometimes, in a traitorous fugue, the dog forgot to be unhappy and ran off to chase purple butterflies or murder shrew-mice, or to piss a joyful stream onto the topiaries. But generally, if her mistress was crying, so was the puppy.

A single note, held in an amber suspension of time, like a charcoal drawing of Icarus falling. It was sad and fierce all at once, alive with a lonely purity. It went on and on, until my own lungs were burning. "What bird are you calling?" I asked finally, when I couldn't stand it any longer. The Bird Man stopped whistling. He grinned, so that I could see all his pebbly teeth. "You.

If you're short on time, that would be the two-word version of our story: we fell.

If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane, I'd walk back up to Heaven and bring you home again.

We live in a dark and romantic and quite tragic world.

So now I ask you, what will happen to me? I have fulfilled my purpose, but I can no longer cease to exist by myself. I have inherited Calandria May's sorrow, and am lost myself without the purpose I once had. I can never be a ship again. So please, I beg you, shut me down now. I never wanted to have a soul.

One day beside some flowers near his noseHe will be thinking, When will I look at it?And pain, still in the middle distance, will replyAt what? and he will know it's gone,O where! and begin to tremble and cry.He will begin to cry as a child criesWhose puppy is mangled under a screaming wheel.

And shall I clutch at dear departing things While leaf and tree in silent splendor part? Go, little joys! and welcome, fluttering wings That brush my clinging sorrows from my heart!

There is no weakness in crying. If we do not sorrow over what hurts us, how do we ever go past it? I have shed many a tear myself, Barbara Devane, over what life has brought me. Compassion can come from great pain, if you allow it. But compassion takes courage. Bitterness is easier.

But, reader, there is no comfort in the word "farewell," even if you say it in French. "Farewell" is a word that,in any language, is full of sorrow. It is a word that promises absolutely nothing.

For hours after Andrew had died on his way into life, she felt powerfully that he had come from unreachable realms with knowledge she needed urgently to learn. Yet there he lay, swaddled in her arms, looking entirely at peace and not at all like a failed emissary. His face was closed; she could read nothing in his blank, perfect features except her own loss. She had given birth to death, and she felt its claim on her. She held Andrew until he was cold and his chill entered her body and heart.

In sex one wants or does not want. And the grief, the sorrow of life is that one cannot make or coerce or persuade the wanting, cannot command it, cannot request it by mail order or finagle it through bureaucratic channels.