Quotes About Sorrow

Caddy put her arms around me, and her shining veil, and I couldn't smell trees anymore and I began to cry.

Because if memory exists outside of the flesh it won't be memory because it won't know what it remembers so when she became not then half of memory became not and if I become not then all of remembering will cease to be. -Yes he thought Between grief and nothing I will take grief.

Then the town was sorry with being glad, as people sometimes are sorry for those whom they have at last forced to do as they wanted them to.

I heard that my mother is dead. I wish I had time to let her die. I wish I had time to wish I had. It is because in the wild and outraged earth too soon too soon too soon. It's not that I wouldn't and will not it's that it is too soon too soon too soon.

be.—Yes he thought Between grief and nothing I will take grief.

when she became not then half of memory became not and if I become not then all of remembering will cease to be.—Yes, he thought, between grief and nothing I will take grief.

Hush, now, she said, stroking his head. Hush. Dilsey got you. But he bellowed slowly, abjectly, without tears; the grave hopeless sound of all voiceless misery under the sound.

But this time as soon as he moved she began to fade. He stopped at once, not breathing again, motionless, willing his eyes to see that she had stopped too. But she had not stopped. She was fading, going. Wait, he said, talking as sweet as he had ever heard his voice speak to a woman: Den lemme go wid you, honey. But she was going.

It was not for an outrage that they grieved, but for simple grief: the only alternative to which was nothing, and between grief and nothing only the coward takes nothing.

Ay, grief goes, fades; we know that–but ask the tear ducts if they have forgotten how to weep.

And you came home? To die. Yes. To die? Yes. To die.

When he touched me I died.

Here lies Horace Benbow in a fading series of small stinking spots on a Mississippi sidewalk

Meet Mrs. Bundren

Then I begin to run. I run toward the back and come to the edge of the porch and stop. Then I begin to cry. I can feel where the fish was in the dust. It is cut up into pieces of not-fish now, not-blood on my hands and overalls. Then it wasn't so. It hadn't happened then. And now she is getting so far ahead I can-not catch her.

O dia corria célere sobre suas cabeças, e as janelas esquálidas brilhavam e escurecia numa retrocessão espectral. Passou um carro, pela pista de areia lá fora, rosnando de esforço, e o som foi morrendo. Dilsey estava empertigada em seu banco, a mão pousada no joelho de Ben. Duas lágrimas desciam-lhe as faces murchas, entrando e saindo dasmil coruscações da imolação e da abnegação do tempo.

Between grief and nothing, I will take grief

Olga came home, but she never came back to life behind those blue eyes. They tried, of course, but the more they tried, the more tenuous she became, and, in their hunger to know, they spread her thinner and thinner until she came, in her martyrdom, to fill whole libraries with frozen aisles of precious relics. No saint was ever pared so fine. (Hinterlands)

As I luxuriate in the discovery that I am no special sponge for sorrow, but merely another fallible animal in this stone maze of a city, I come simultaneously to see that I am the focus of some vast device fueled by an obscure desire.

I cried out not with hope of an ear but as accepting a shut door, darkness and a shut sky.

They were reminded of their personal sorrows; and perhaps felt themselves to share in a sorrow that was universal.

Westley, my passion, my sweet, my only, my own. Come back, come back. I shall kill myself otherwise. Yours in torment, Buttercup. She looked at Humperdinck. Well? Do you think I'm throwing myself at him? It does seem a bit forward, the Prince admitted.

I could feel almost my heart emptying into my pillow. Iguess the most amazing thing about crying though is that when you're in it, you think it'll go on forever but it never really lasts half what you think. Not in terms of real time.

your milk, your milk has killed me" and then the child stiffened and cracked and turned in Buttercup's hands to nothing but dry dust and Buttercup screamed and screamed;