Quotes About Sorrow

How I adore you, Marya. How well I chose. Scold me; deny me. Tell me you want what you want and damn me forever. But don't leave me.

Slowly, without taking his eyes from hers, the man in the black coat knelt before her. "I have come for the girl in the window," he said, and his eyes filled with tears.

I look at you, Masha, and it is like drinking cold water. I look at you and it is like my throat being cut.

Her heart ached as though a knife had quietly slipped between her ribs.

However wretched her origins, she chose freely to continue her crimes against us from the moment she woke to this life. It is easy to forgive beautiful women, especially when they lay a sorrowful tale before you like a sugar-dusted meal. It does not mean they deserve forgiveness.

You will live as you live in any world...With difficulty, and grief.

This is my heart—carry it with you. I will dream of you in the dark, and you will taste it in my tea, and feel it in my shoes.

Night poured itself down my throat. Night was my wine and my meat. Night wed me and bedded me, widowed me and murdered me and resurrected me whole a thousand times over with each hour.

Brother," he wept, "my heart is being cut in two. I cannot bear it." "Tscha!" said the Tsar of Birds. "Life is like that.

Things that begin and end in grief: marriage, harvest, childbirth. Journeys away from home. Journeys toward home. Surgeries. Love. Weeping.

And in her long nights, in her long house of smoke and miller's stones, she baked the bread we eat in dreams, strangest loaves, her pies full of anguish and days long dead, her fairy-haunted gingerbread, her cakes wet with tears.

Sophia fully and truly thinks she will die. The sound of it is a knife, if a knife could kiss, and the kiss could turn the color of morning... ... Yet it contains a perfection that is twin to pain.

Oh, Marya Morevna! Do you know how the church-folk call me, me and my daughter Gamayun, when they paint us on their ceilings? They call us archangels, and say that we live in heaven, where no vine of sorrow or memory grows. That is where I sent you, not to heaven—tscha! I know nothing of that place. But to a place like the ceiling of a church.

The burnt-off connectors and shadows where Ravan once filled my spaces— those, I think, are the sensations of grief.

One is always homesick for places where one came to grief.

And the heart of Ivan Nikolayevich broke inside the body of Marya Morevna, and the pieces of him lodged deep in her bones, and through the window, the stars watched.

For this is the constant sorrow of the dead, that though they drink and eat and dream much as they did before, they know they are dead, and yearn desperately to live again, to feel blood inside them once more, to remember who they were. For the memory of the dead is short, and thought by thought they lose all sense of their former lives until they drift from place to place as shades, their eyes hollow. After a time, they believe they are alive again.

The sweetness of it all is sharpest when placed alongside sorrow, close as knife and fork. But it is my job to interrogate your happiness, to prod its corners, to make sure it holds. When a sadness chews at the bottom of your heart, it's as though you walk all day with your dress on backwards, the buttons facing the forest, the collar facing the village. To everyone else, all may seem normal, but my eyes are so keen.

In his own country, Death can be kind. But of an end

He meant to kill me...No, not kill me – make me forget. Forget everything. He said we'd live together in a house of pumpkin and gold – yes, once I couldn't remember why I'd come to Fairyland-Below, or recall Fairyland-Above, or even Omaha and Mother and Father and any reason not to live in Tain and feast every night! How could he? That's as bad as killing, to take away everything a person is.

And really, really, when you put a fairy tale together with grime and despair and industrial angst you get the Gothic, and that's where we live, Percy.

What the sign meant. To lose your heart. When I go home, I shall leave mine here, and I don't think I shall ever have it back." -September

A sorrow is a resourceful beast.

We may also take a moment to feel a little sorry for her, for having a heart leads to the peculiar griefs of the grown.