Quotes About Sorrow

Every aspect of every minute of the day--rain without surcease spilling out of the black and liquid sky; sloughed, fierce sweeps of wind; the swollen, silt-ridden, ever-swiftening river; the torturing midges; the ghostly mists like amorphous shifts of sorrow--all had acted in perfect scheme to chasten desire. Nought, though, can ever fully dry the angler's heart of it.

She's a tear that hangs inside my soul forever

So I'll wait for you... And I'll burn Will I ever see your sweet return? Oh, will I ever learn? Oh, Lover, you should've come over Cause it's not too late.

love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.

The young man had lost his mentor, his home, and his brother, all because of the actions of a single night.

In Bottletown, even our tears flicker like jewels.

Even heaven is hell without you.

And so I wept my story into the ocean and the ocean received it.

But the truth was what Silvina had seen: we were already ghosts. We just kept haunting each other for no reason. Even as we kept awaiting the mortal blow. But there would be no mortal blow, just endless depths.

Her only weapons were her tears.

se dijo con tristeza; el muerto era un yo descalzo

I believe it important to emphasize how strongly I feel that books, just like people, have a destiny. Some invite sorrow, others joy, some both.

I feel that books, just like people, have a destiny. Some invite sorrow, others joy, some both.

Next to him lay his violin, trampled, an eerily poignant little corpse.

I didn't know that this was the moment in time and the place where I was leaving my mother and Tzipora forever.

On everyone's back, there was a sack. In everyone's eyes, tears and distress.

tears, like drops of wax, flowed from his eyes.

The street resembled fairgrounds deserted in haste. There was a little of everything: suitcases, briefcases, bags, knives, dishes, banknotes, papers, faded portraits. All the things one planned to take along and finally left behind. They had ceased to matter.

He was playing his life. His whole being was gliding over the strings. His unfulfilled hopes. His charred past, his extinguished future. He played that which he would never play again. I shall never forget Juliek. How could I forget this concert given before an audience of the dead and dying? Even today, when I hear that particular piece by Beethoven, my eyes close and out of the darkness emerges the pale and melancholy face of my Polish comrade bidding farewell to an audience of dying men.

I wept because-because of something inside me that felt the need for tears.

Since my father's death, nothing mattered to me anymore.

books, just like people, have a destiny. Some invite sorrow, others joy, some both.

Your sorrow is the inevitable result of circumstances beyond your control

Perhaps tragedies are only tragedies in the presence of love, which confers meaning to loss.