Quotes About Sorrow

Sometimes I wish I could describe how wonderful I feel in those few seconds from the time he spreads his arms above his head, as if trying to grab hold of something, to the instant he vanishes into the water. But I can never find the right words. Perhaps it's because he's falling through time, to a place where words can never reach.

Excuse me,- I said, but my voice seemed to disappear into the dark. It was my body. In this gloomy, cramped box, I had eaten poison plants and died, hidden away from prying eyes. Crouching down at the door, I wept. For my dead self.

unable to rid herself of her memories. Poor thing.

Dare I say I miss him? I do. I miss him. I still see him in my dreams. They are nightmares mostly, but nightmares tinged with love. Such is the strangeness of the human heart.

The man who let the love of his life pass him by will end up alone with his regrets and all the sighs in the world won't soothe his soul.

A lightning flash lit up the shadows. Rain was falling gently. The window panes themselves were weeping. Be careful, Younes, I thought, you're wallowing in self-pity. But what did that matter? This was what I saw: the windows crying. I wanted to see tears streak the window panes, I wanted to feel sorry for myself, I wanted to dissolve body and soul into my grief.

Giorni miei Solo a sera m'è dato assistere alla deposizione della luce, quando la vita, ormai senza rimedio, è perduta. Mio convoglio funebre di ogni notte: emigrazione di sensi, accorgimenti delle ore tradite, intanto che lo spirito è rapito sotto l'acutissimo arco dell'esistenza: l'accompagna una musica di indicibile silenzio. Invece dovere ogni mattina risorgere sognare sempre impossibili itinerari.

So many things that might have been," Edgar said. "My life – I'm afraid – will be recorded as a series of things that are, and better things that might have been. My heart is sore, and I have never felt so weary.

And you stupid, stupid woman, stupid for caring, stupid for thinking that he cared.

perhaps grief is as much regret for what we have never had as sorrow for what we have lost.

The unrequited love of ones' only living offspring has its own particular slow acid burn

grief is as much regret for what we have never had as sorrow for what we have lost. As

Yet there seemed to be no easy correlation between the awful grief I felt at her death and our closeness – or lack of it – in life, and it occurred to me that perhaps grief is as much regret for what we have never had as sorrow for what we have lost.

I'm so depressed. Christmas is the worst of all. Holidays are terrible, worse than Sundays. I get melancholia.

The things I saw and things I missed- The many, many bloody things I fucking missed- It's just another morning; another morning when I wish I wasn't here.

Fairy tales do not deny the existence of . . . sorrow and failure: the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance; it denies (in the face of much evidence if you will) universal final defeat . . . giving a glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief. —J. R. R. Tolkien

Jasper, who is six, is the only one of us who responds appropriately. He wails, inconsolable for an hour.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form; Then have I reason to be fond of grief.

The center of the artistic process—for me—is the attempt to transform a particular feeling, insight, sorrow into a metaphor and then make that metaphor ramify so it holds everything, everything in the world.

each subjective pleasure which had no foundation in action, there was a subjective sorrow,

Sorrow and desolation have their songs as well as joy and peace. Slaves sing more to make themselves happy than to express their happiness

By the Rivers of Babylon, there we sat down. Yea! we wept when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. For there, they that carried us away captive, required of us a song; and they who wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion. How can we sing the Lord's song in a strange land? If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning. If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth.

They show us more often Than not how to die At the same time and in more ways Of doing both, of taking the first Out of the heart of the other And spreading it around…

It was as if the coffin was a toboggan. A coffin toboggan. A coffboggan.