Quotes About Sorrow

When you lose someone that's really important to you, I feel like it's something that never really goes away. It's almost learning how to live with an empty feeling; it's weird. Something's always missing, but you kind of get used to it.

Too many mothers have lost their children, for thousands of different reasons.

And she did not weep for herself, but for him: the hour after his birth she had looked in his dark eyes and had seen something that would brood there eternally, she knew, unfathomable wells of remote and intangible loneliness: she knew that in her dark and sorrowful womb a stranger had come to life, fed by the lost communications of eternity, his own ghost, haunter of his own house, lonely to himself and to the world. O lost.

The huge, dark wall of loneliness is around him now. It encloses and presses in upon him, and he cannot escape. And the cancerous plant of memory is feeding at his entrails, recalling hundreds of forgotten faces and ten thousand vanished days, until all life seems as strange and insubstantial as a dream.

We're all searching for something to fill up what I like to call that big, God-shaped hole in our souls. Some people use alcohol, or sex, or their children, or food, or money, or music, or heroin. A lot of people even use the concept of God itself. I could go on and on. I used to know a girl who used shoes. She had over two-hundred pairs. But it's all the same thing, really. People, for some stupid reason, think they can escape their sorrows.

The days will always be brighter because he existed. The nights will always be darker because he's gone. And no matter what anybody says about grief, and about time healing all wounds, the truth is, there are certain sorrows that never fade away until the heart stops beating and the last breath is taken.

Can a heart break, once it's stopped beating?

The world shrieks and sinks talons into our hearts. This we call memory.

And in the end, of course, a true war story is never about war. It's about sunlight. It's about the special way that dawn spreads out on a river when you know you must cross the river and march into the mountains and do things you are afraid to do. It's about love and memory. It's about sorrow. It's about sisters who never write back and people who never listen.

Everywhere, it seemed, in the tress and water and sky, a great worldwide sadness came pressing down on me, a crushing sorrow, sorrow like I had never known it before.

My whole life seemed to spill out into the river, swirling away from me, everything I had ever been or ever wanted to be.

A hundred stories [...] Ghosts rising from the dead. Ghosts behind you and in front of you and inside you.

Martha'n?n akci?erlerinde uyumak, onun kan?n? solumak ve avutulmak istiyordu.

They all carried ghosts.

Lee Strunk made a funny ghost sound, a kind of moaning, yet very happy, and right then, when Strunk made that high happy moaning sound, when he went Ahhooooo, right then Ted Lavender was shot in the head on his way back from peeing. He lay with his mouth open. The teeth were broken. There was a swollen black bruise under his left eye. The cheekbone was gone. Oh shit, Rat Kiley said, the guy's dead. The guy's dead, he kept saying, which seemed profound - the guy's dead. I mean really.

On the morning after Ted Lavender died, First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross crouched at the bottom of his foxhole and burned Martha's letters. Then he burned the two photographs.

It's about love and memory. It's about sorrow. It's about sisters who never write back and people who never listen.

Sometimes I miss you the way someone drowning remembers the air.

It's the same for those who die and those that survive both are sad as the other

Rangiku…I couldn't do it. I couldn't get back what he took from you. Oh.. I'm so glad I got to tell you I was sorry.

It's too bad…I wouldn't have minded being your prisoner a while longer. Goodbye…Rangiku. I'm sorry.

I had never seen such sorrow; it appalled me. And I was even more appalled by her attempts to overcome it, because they so plainly, pathetically failed and in failing opened up a view of the world I had only begun to suspect, where wounds did not heal, and things did not work out for the best

a girl from his English class who'd overdosed on sleeping pills after learning of the disappearance of her identical twin.

The pain of love does not break hearts, it merely seasons them. The disappointed heart revives itself and grows meaty and piquant. Sorrow expands it and makes it pithy. The spirit, on the other hand, can snap like a bone and may never fully knit