Quotes About Grief

The novelist defines the story with the following example: If you are told that the king died and then the queen died, that is a sequence of events. If you were told that the king died and then the queen died of grief, that is a story that he was interested.

I guess I had, too, this melancholy, and somehow Buddy Holly dying at least gave me a tangible reason for this feeling. Maybe it's just all the sadness I see in the people around me, just below the surface I mean, and the fact that there's nothing I can do about it. Life is like that sometimes.

There's a particular type of alone you feel when in a room with someone who's no longer alive, she's discovering now, and it is the worst kind.

And yet I was filled with grief. In the beginning of all love there is grief, because at that moment you're closest to the ghost of parting. You know how easily it could all slip away, how easily it could evaporate into eternal, never-to-be-consummated longing.

He wasn't going to be alone after she died, but the world was going to be a lonelier place without her.

Miss me, but let me go.

There are moments when even to the sober eye of reason, the world of our sad humanity may assume the semblance of Hell.

Deep in earth my love is lying And I must weep alone.

I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow.

Viandante, amare è ritrovare la propria anima traverso l'anima dell'amato. Quando l'amato se ne stacca, allora tu l'hai perduta. È scritto: "Ho un amico, ma il mio dolore non ha amici".

Accepting the loss of a loved one is difficult. But reconciling with the living is just as important.

She was brave from excess of grief

The person who grieves suffers his passion to grow upon him he indulges it, he loves it but this never happens in the case of actual pain, which no man ever willingly endured for any considerable time.

He oft finds med'cine, who his griefe imparts; But double griefs afflict concealing harts, As raging flames who striveth to supresse.

His Lady sad to see his sore constraint, Cried out, "Now now Sir knight, shew what ye bee, Add faith unto your force, and be not faint: Strangle her, else she sure will strangle thee." That when he heard, in great perplexitie, His gall did grate for griefe and high distaine, And knitting all his force got one hand free, Wherewith he grypt her gorge with so great paine, That soone to loose her wicked bands did her constraine.

My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,Did all within this circle move!

My mother died when I was 18. Up until then, I never saw a tin can in my house. (Washington Post interview, 1990)

I knew I had done something awful. I had killed love, before I even knew the enormity of what love meant.

Death devours all lovely things;Lesbia with her sparrowShares the darkness—presentlyEvery bed is narrow.

We were so wholly one I had not thought That we could die apart. I had not thought That I could move,—and you be stiff and still! That I could speak,—and you perforce be dumb! I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof In some firm fabric, woven in and out; Your golden filaments in fair design Across my duller fibre.

The first rose on my rose-tree Budded, bloomed, and shattered, During sad days when to me Nothing mattered. Grief of grief has drained me clean; Still it seems a pity No one saw,—it must have been Very pretty.

For my omniscience paid I toll In infinite remorse of soul. All sin was of my sinning, all Atoning mine, and mine the gall Of all regret. Mine was the weight Of every brooded wrong, the hate That stood behind each envious thrust, Mine every greed, mine every lust. And all the while for every grief, Each suffering, I craved relief With individual desire, – Craved all in vain! And felt fierce fire About a thousand people crawl; Perished with each, — then mourned for all!

Yet here one time your spirit was wont to move; Here might I hope to find you day or night, And here I come to look for you, my love, Even now, foolishly, knowing you are dead.

Am I kin to Sorrow, That so oft Falls the knocker of my door— Neither loud nor soft, But as long accustomed— Under Sorrow's hand?