Quotes About Grief

son of Stefano Mele and Barbara Locci, who was sleeping in the backseat of the car and who witnessed his mother's murder at age six.

She felt his shoulders began to convulse, faintly, regularly, almost as if he was weeping. But that was, of course, impossible, as Pendergast would never cry.

For reasons steeped in flawed intuition, differing cultural norms, and superstition, detectives in Perugia almost immediately focused on Amanda Knox as the target of their investigation. It was this "junk profiling" that caused them to believe that because she didn't weep for the victim in public, she didn't weep in private. This lack of public display of grief caused them to falsely believe she killed her friend.

I feel grief at the waste of myself in those years, anger at the mutilation and manipulation of the relationship between mother and child, which is the great original source and experience of love.

And all the country echoeth with the moan, And poureth many a tear For that magnific power Of ancient days far-seen that thou didst share With those of one blood sprung; And all the mortal men who hold the plain Of holy Asia as their land of sojourn, They grieve in sympathy For thy woes lamentable.

For wherein is life sweet to him who suffers grief?

To weep and lament over misfortunes, when it draws the sympathizing tear, brings no light recompense.

Sweet is a grief well ended.

Alas, I am struck a deep mortal blow!

Oh, the torment bred in the race, the grinding scream of death and the stroke that hits the vein, the hemorrhage none can staunch, the grief, the curse no man can bear. But there is a cure in the house, and not outside it, no, not from others but from them, their bloody strife. We sing to you, dark gods beneath the earth. Now hear, you blissful powers underground -- answer the call, send help. Bless the children, give them triumph now.

There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief.

The end of an ox is beef, and the end of a lie is grief

Six people were thinking of Rosemary Barton who had died nearly a year ago...

I don't want to write about it at all. I want, you see, to think about it as little as possible. Hercule Poirot was dead - and with him died a good part of Arthur Hastings.

I don't particularly want to think of your funeral because I'd much prefer to die before you do. But I mean, if I were going to your funeral, at any rate it would be an orgy of grief. I should take a lot of handkerchiefs.

If I were dead, the first thing you'd do, with the tears streaming down your face, would be to start modelling some damned mourning woman or some figure of grief.

A lot of additional pain and grief is caused by honesty," remarked Hercule Poirot.

The bereaved had never any doubt about their dear ones' wishes and those wishes usually squared with their own inclinations.

I know—I know. To all of us, Mademoiselle, there comes a time when death is preferable to life. But it passes—sorrow passes and grief. You cannot believe that now, I know.

The hearse is at the door, sir.

Besides a burial service is rather lovely. Makes you feel uplifted, the grief is real. It makes you feel awful but it does something to you. I mean, it works it out like perspiration.

Real grief is real. It makes you feel awful but it does something to you. I mean, it works it out like perspiration.

eyes were red with recent weeping.

Not that I'm really a matchmaker, and of course it was indecent to think of such a thing before the funeral even. But after all, it would be a happy solution.