Quotes About Sorrow

He felt her draw a little shuddering breath, and then a wet tumble of water on her cheek. She whispered, "God forgive, Jervaulx—that I sh'dovethee." That I should love thee. It broke the spell that held him. Had she said that? He pushed back, gazing at her.

I'm sorry,' Finn mumbled, a global apology for everything he was, and everything he was not, and all the ways he couldn't let it go.

Grief obliterates the present, forcing you to relive the past and dread the future.

People talk of sorrow as if it is soft, a thing of water and tears. But true sorrow is not soft. True sorrow is a thing of fire, and rock. It burns your heart, crushes your soul under the weight of mountains. It destroys, and even if you keep breathing, keep going, you die.

the pain of that first lost was still raw. You could deal with it, endure it, but never escape it.

I cannot do it. I cannot bear it. I cannot go back to what I was here. I cannot stand at her side and watch another take her. I am not that strong or that good.

That was the true terror of love, that you could love with your whole heart, your whole soul, and lose both

You cannot die from grief, though it feels like you can. A heart does not actually break, though sometimes you chest aches as if it is breaking. Grief dims with time. It is the way of things. There comes a day when you smile again, and you feel like a traitor. How dare I feel happy. How dare I be glad in a world my father is no more. And then you cry fresh tears, because you do not miss him so much as you once did, and giving up your grief is another kind of death.

We are not made up only of our light and happiness but also of darkness and sorrow. To deny the darkness of yourself is to deny half of who you are, and when you love, truly love, you need to love the whole person not just the part that smiles and waves, but the part that thinks murderous thoughts and knows that pain is both pleasure and temptation, but still thinks puppies are really cute.

Raising the dead was easy; love was hard.

The tears were back, stinging just behind my eyes. There was blood all over my penguins. I didn't give a damn about the walls and carpet. They could be replaced, but I'd collected those damned stuffed toys over years.

Watching St John rock his wife's body was not part of my job description. Honest. I sat down on the stairs where I could see the door, the hallway, and the stairs as far as the landing. St John started singing in a strange, broken voice. It took me a few minutes to figure out what he was singing. It was 'You are so Beautiful

I used to think that only death could take someone away from me, but I have learned so many lesser things could steal someone away. Just as completely; just as forever.

Only Jean-Claude could die and look this pretty while he did it. 'Anita

Angel started to cry on the way. "I am so sorry, Anita." The thick Goth eye makeup started to run down her face like black tears. She needed to switch brands. Mine didn't run like that. Thank you, Dior.

But would it be that easy? To adjust my lens a little? To stop wallowing in all this murky sorrow? To change my attitude, let the sunlight in, fix myself?

My eyes swiveled to the sorrowful girl who was currently cowering in the foyer, looking as fearful as a cornered hamster as she trembled and tried not to cry.

I won't go about to argue the point with you,—'tis so,—and I am persuaded of it, madam, as much as can be, That both man and woman bear pain or sorrow, (and, for aught I know, pleasure too) best in a horizontal position.

I am pursuaded of it, madam, as much as can be, That both man and woman bear pain or sorrow, (and, for aught I know, pleasure too) best in a horizontal position.

Ä°nsan hayat? nedir ki! Bir taraftan bir tarafa - bir kederden ötekine geçmek deÄŸil mi? - bir derdin üstüne kilit vurup - bir baÅŸkas?n? açmak!

I believe that the purpose of death is the release of love.

Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in black, black, black. She has a knife, knife, knife, stuck in her back, back, back. She cannot breathe, breathe, breathe. She cannot cry, cry, cry. Thats why she begs, begs, begs. She begs to die, die ,die..

Melancholy held me hostage, and the bees built a hive of sadness in my soul.

Nothing chases away the sand or the memories engraved on the back of my eyelids. They play on a continuous loop, with smells and sound and sorrow.