Quotes About Grief

It kills me sometimes, how people die

She leaned down and looked at his lifeless face and Liesel kissed her best friend, Rudy Steiner, soft and true on his lips. He tasted dusty and sweet. He tasted like regret in the shadows of trees and in the glow of the anarchist's suit collection. She kissed him long and soft, and when she pulled herself away, she touched his mouth with her fingers.

Liesel was sure her mother carried the memory of him, slung over her shoulder. She dropped him. She saw his feet and legs and body slap the platform. How could that woman walk? How could she move? That's the sort of thing I'll never know, or comprehend-what humans are capable of. Death-

Rudy Steiner slept. Mama and Papa slept. Frau Holtzapfel, Frau Diller. Tommy Müller. All sleeping. All dying.

Rudy, please, wake up. God damn it, wake up, I love you. Come on, Rudy, come one, Jesse Owens, don't you know I love you, wake up, wake up, wake up...

Rudy Steiner was scared of the book thief's kiss. He must have longed for it so much. He must have loved her so incredibly hard. So hard that he would never ask for her lips again and would go to his grave without them.

She could only hope they could read the depth of sorrow in her face, to recognize that it was true, and not fleeting. I

Yes, I know it. In the darkness of my dark-beating heart, I know. He'd have loved it, all right. You see? Even death has a heart.

It kills me sometimes, how people die... -Told from the perspective of Death

I kills me sometimes, the way people die. -Death

Los primeros días se sentaban a su lado y hablaban con él. El día de su cumpleaños le dijo que si se despertaba abrí un enorme pastel esperándole en la cocina. No se despertó. No hubo pastel.

a beautiful, tear-stomped girl,shaking the dead.

I fell to my knees, hugged Uncle Roman, and wept. July 1, 1941 The day after Uncle Roman's funeral, I went out to take Krasa to the pasture as usual, but a crowd of people stood in front of our church, hugging one another, laughing, and crying.

Yes, but that's what grief often does: turns something impossible into something possible. Turns something unpreventable into the preventable.

Is that why the parents of dead children spend half the rest of their lives in darkened rooms? Are they hoping the ghosts will return with all their original power? She

Only parents and torturers and the janitors of holocausts are asked to stand the sound of so much human grief.

Kingsley used to tell the following anecdote about sibling rivalry – how he found me, when I was four or five, lying on the stairs in an ecstasy of grief, how he worriedly knelt at my side and, after several minutes, managed to quell my hiccuppy gaspings, my heaving chest. Then he said, 'Easy now . . . What is it?' When at last I could find and shape the words, I said, 'Philip had a biscuit' . . .

Hamlet doesn't fully see that his metaphysical miseries constitute a subliminal symptom of grief; and this was exactly my case. I thought I was sick, I thought I was dying (maybe that is what bereavement actually asks of you). Literature gives us these warnings about the main events, but we don't recognize the warnings until the events have come and gone. Isabel, my senior in the loss of a sibling, told me that you just have to take it, like weather—yes, like sleet in your face.

We were all involved in the death of John Kennedy. We tolerated hate; we tolerated the sick stimulation of violence in all walks of life; and we tolerated the differential application of law, which said that a man's life was sacred only if we agreed with his views. This may explain the cascading grief that flooded the country in late November. We mourned a man who had become the pride of the nation, but we grieved as well for ourselves because we knew we were sick.

To Pussy (1981-1995)

You did give me treatment. You never tell me any news. Your Mrs up and died of TB the other year, and who was the last to know? I was the last to know. I wasn't told until the day she died, and you knew for weeks and weeks, with not a thought for my feelings …

GIRLEEN: Coleman. Father Welsh Walsh Welsh... WELSH: Welsh. GIRLEEN: Welsh. I know. Don't be picking me up. How is all? COLEMAN: We've just stuck our dad in the ground. GIRLEEN: Grand, grand. I met the postman on the road with a letter for Valene.

No, not 'well'! Christ no, not 'well'. 'Well'...dot dot dot...'she's'...dot dot dot...'dead'. Dot.

She had to learn this painful lesson. And quickly. If you let it, grief could swallow you whole.