Quotes About Grief

Then he pulled out a handgun and shot me in the chest. I was standing on the lawn and I fell. The bullet hole opened wide and my heart rolled out of my rib cage and down into a flower bed. Blood gushed rhythmically from my open wound, then from my eyes, my ears, my mouth. It tasted like salt and failure. The bright red shame of being unloved soaked the grass in front of our house, the bricks of the path, the steps of the porch. My heart spasmed among the peonies like a trout.

Divorce shreds the muscles of our hearts so that they will hardly beat without a struggle.

One day when no one else was around, I went into the craft room at the back of the ground floor. I touched Gran's collection of fabrics, the shiny bright buttons, the coloured threads. My head and shoulders melted first, followed by my hips and knees. Before long I was a puddle, soaking into the pretty cotton prints. I drenched the quilt she never finished, rusted the metal parts of her sewing machine. I was pure liquid loss...

What a horrible death for those poor, dear, naughty dogs.

I'd think of these images - people dying, a city drowning - instead of thinking about Rosemary, dying, drowning.

Do you still miss Gran?" I ask him as we head toward New Clairmont. "Because I miss her. We never talk about her." "A part of me died," he says. "And it was the best part.

as if this tragedy marked the end of the family. And perhaps it did. And perhaps it did not.

My head and shoulders melted first, followed by my hips and knees. Before long I was a puddle, soaking into the pretty cotton prints. I drenched the quilt she never finished, rusted the metal parts of her sewing machine. I was pure liquid loss, then, for an hour or two. My grandmother, my grandmother. Gone forever, though I could smell her Chanel perfume on the fabrics.

I'll tell you what I don't want at my funeral," says Johnny. "I don't want a bunch of New York art-world types who don't even know me standing around in a stupid-ass reception room." "I don't want religious people talking about a God I don't believe in," says Gat. "Or a bunch of fake girls acting all sad and then putting lip gloss on in the bathroom and fixing their hair," says Mirren.

It'll just hurt a lot.

Do you still miss Gran?" I ask him as we head toward New Clairmont. "Because I miss her. We never talk about her." "A part of me died," he says. "And it was the best part." "You think so?" I ask "That is all there is to say about it," says Granddad.

I was pure liquid loss, then, for an hour or two.

There's nothing in our whole house that says he ever lived with us, except me. Why are you allowed to erase my father and I'm not allowed to " "Erase yourself?" Mummy says.

I just broke up with someone. I am an egg yolk of misery.

Funerals were held for Gatwick Matthew Patil, Mirren Sinclair Sheffield and Jonathan Sinclair Dennis.

There is not a scrabble word for how bad I feel." -We Were Liars

No one can keep his griefs in their prime; they use themselves up.

The crime of suicide lies in its disregard for the feelings of those whom we leave behind.

Not a yard but was part of a shell-hole--not an inch, to be more precise-- And most of the holes held water, and all the water was ice: They stared at the bleak blue heavens like the glazed blue eyes of the slain, Till the snow came, shutting them gently, and sheeting the slaughtered plain.

So it's true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love.

Placing my head on my knees, I let the irrational tears fall unrestrained. I am crying over the loss of something I never had. How ridiculous. Mourning something that never was - my dashed hopes, my dashed dreams, and my soured expectations.

The crime of suicide lies rather in its disregard for the feelings of those whom we leave behind.

For the dead, who seem to take away so much, really take with them nothing that is ours.

He mourned his wife more sincerely because he mourned her seldom.