Quotes About Grief

O Emily! these are moments, in which joy and grief struggle so powerfully for pre-eminence, that the heart can scarcely support the contest!

The loved idea of Angelo still rose upon my fancy, and its powers of captivation, heightened by absence, and, perhaps even by despair, pursued me with incessant grief. I concealed in silence the anguish that preyed upon my heart, and resigned myself a willing victim

I didn't know how to say goodbye. Words were stupid. They said so little. Yet they opened up holes you could fall into and never climb out of again.

You see, Novelka, in an odd sort of way, some of our strongest relationships are with people who have died. We miss the person, we think of them, we wonder what they would want us to do, how they would want us to act. Though they are not here, they still strongly influence our lives. And so we go on loving them, sometimes even more, when they are gone.

Bevo a una casa distrutta, alla mia vita sciagurata, a solitudini vissute in due e bevo anche a te: all'inganno di labbra che tradirono, al morto gelo dei tuoi occhi, ad un mondo crudele e rozzo, ad un Dio che non ci ha salvato.

I'm not grieving, I'm not angry, and only darkness accompanies me. How deep it is and velvety, above all, always familiar to me…

Beyond the lake the waning moon has slowed, And stands there like a window open wide Into a hushed and brightly lit abode Where something dreadful has occurred inside.

I, the half-mad mourner of buried days

You will not live again. You will not rise from the snow Twenty-eight holes from the bayonet Five from the gun. I have made a shroud for my friend, Sad cloth. She loves, loves blood This Russian earth.

Whether to look for you on earth -- I don't know if you're dead or you live -- Or about you in the evening I should for you, departed, grieve. All is for you: and the daily prayer And the sleeplessness' swooning flame And the white flock of my poems And my eyes' blue violent flame. No one was dearer to me, no one, No one left me this bereft, Not even he who betrayed me to torment, Not even he who caressed, then left.

Like a white stone at the bottom of the well, One memory lies in me. I cannot and I do not want to struggle, It is both joy and suffering. I think that anyone who looks into my Eyes will all at once see him. More sad and pensive he'll become That heard the story of this suffering. I know that the gods had turned People to objects, without killing mind, That divine sadness lived eternally. You're turned into my memory, I find.

a grieved shadow hunts my body's warmth

Magdalene wept in a furious daze, The dear disciple stood still, like a stone.

And I'd started thinking about my mother's last weeks--the way she'd drifted listlessly about the house in her dressing gown, cigarettes in one hand, glass of something strong-smelling in the other.

The human brain cannot encompass total absence. Like infinity, it is simply not something that the organ runs to. The space someone leaves must be filled, so we dream forever of those who are no longer here. Our minds make them live again.

My father was a doctor,' she says, 'a very kind man. He died in the early '70s, relatively young.' She taps the cigarette packet on the table. 'Of lung cancer.' 'Oh.' 'But the thing about that is,' she says as she exhales, 'it doesn't take very long at all.

Den Kummer dessen, der das Unglück auslöst. Diejenigen, die bleiben, bedauert man, die tröstet man. Aber diejenigen, die gehen?

I said I wanted to see her. 'You can't.' He turned the key, dropped it into his pocket, threw a pistol down on the table. 'She's dead.' A knife went through me. All other deaths in the world were outside; this one was in my body, like a bayonet, like my own.

When one by one our ties are torn, And friend from friend is snatched forlorn; When man is left alone to mourn, Oh! then how sweet it is to die!

Grief is a private, internal thing. No one can say their pain is worse than yours because they don't know. So maybe it's not good to compare. Maybe it's better to talk to people who know you.

I have been alone since my husband died. I stay in my home. I don't date. It's hard to date when you're at home. Nobody knows you.

Here is one of the worst things about having someone you love die: It happens again every single morning.

Well, it's hard to say how I am these days, and that's the truth. I guess I'm still numb from my mother's death. I still can't quite believe I'll never see her again. That's the hardest part, suddenly thinking I'll have to tell her something later, and then I remember she's not there.

We take so much into us when we lose someone we love," he said. "We must hold what is left of them. We make choices they would have made, feel what they would have felt. This is the piece of ourselves we lose, you see, because we must make room for them. Death is a parasite, of sorts.