Quotes About Grief

There are very few topics where I can imagine that you might not find humor. And I was stunned at how much weird and dark humor there was when my mom died.

I remember tearing up the first time I read Nabokov's description, in 'Speak, Memory,' of his father being tossed on a blanket by cheering muzhiks, with its astonishingly subtle foreshadowing of grief and mourning.

I don't remember much of my childhood. My father passed away when I was six, and sadly, I don't have the fuzziest, foggiest memory of him - what his voice was like, anything he ever said to me, nothing. My early years are a total blur.

I can't admit things; that's why I can't go to funerals and stuff like that. I find it very, very difficult to deal with that kind of reality. I shut myself off totally because it affects me so badly.

Not that it mattered. The people who were dead were still dead.

Grief lingers, and the ache of loss; those things don't change. But seeping into every leaf, a little guilty burns away each autumn, and falls, spinning down the river. Winter's long sleep begins, and with each spring the tree wales knowing mercifully less than it did the year before.

My dad was diagnosed with cancer, so we ended up burying him a year to the day that he was diagnosed.

I rose and moved towards him. You would have done the same yourself. It is an ancient matter. Something propels you towards sudden grief, or perhaps also sometimes repels. You move away. I moved towards it, I couldn't help it.

I wonder if I were to have an X-ray at the little hospital, would the machine see my grief? Is it like rust, arheum about the heart?

I miss her face, its beauty, and its beauty lost.

Four men killed that day. The phrase sat up in Willie's head like a rat and made a nest for itself there

How I would like to say that I loved my father so much that I could not have lived without him, but such an avowal would be proved false in time. Those that we love, those essential beings, are removed from us at the will of the Almighty, or the devils that usurp him. It is as if a huge lump of lead were lain over the soul, such deaths, and where that soul was previously weightless, now is a secret and ruinous burden at the very heart of us.

Do you know the grief of it? I hope not. The grief that does not age, that does not go away with time, like most griefs and human matters. That is the grief that is always there, swinging a little in a derelict house, my father, my father. I cry out for him.

The real comfort is that the history of the world contains so much grief that my small griefs are edged out, and are only cinders at the borders of the fire. I am saying this again because I want it to be true.

Something had happened to that sorrow. It had gone rancid in him, he thought; it had boiled down to something he didn't understand. The pith of sorrow was in the upshot a little seed of death.

But Fr Gaunt was so clipped and trim he had no antennae at all for grief. He was like a singer who knows the words and can sing, but cannot sing the song as conceived in the heart of the composer. Mostly he was dry. He spoke over young and old with the same dry music. But

My head is already stuffed with grief I suppose like a pomegranate with its red seeds. I can only bleed grief, having no room for more.

Grief is about two years long, they say, it is a platitude out of manuals for grievers. But we are in mourning for our mothers before even we are born.

The real comfort is that the history of the world contains so much grief that my small grief are edged out, and are only cinders at the borders of the fire.

Those that we love, those essential beings, are removed from us at the will of the Almighty, or the devils that usurp them.

guess I had no choice in the matter. Once your mother is taken from you you can't ever catch up with her again. You can't cry out 'Wait for me' when the winds turn cold under a wolf moon and she has walked far ahead of you across the grasses searching for wood.

Those that we love, those essential beings...it is as if a huge lump of lead were lain over the soul, such deaths, and where that soul was previously weightless, now is a secret and ruinous burden at the very heart of us. Because a lone person takes great comfort from her people, in the watches of the night, even the memory of them.

One moment, fine enough, sorrowing, but fine, sort of. The next, a big bulge of grief in my throat, so that if I had to speak in that moment my voice would be high and squeaky.

Bei der Beerdigung ihrer Mutter hatte der Pfaffer gesagt, die Eltern würden erst dann sterben, wenn die Kinder nicht mehr an sie dachten. Er vergaß den umgekehrten Fall zu erwähnen, in dem die Eltern innerlich starben, wenn ihnen nichts weiter als der Gedanke an ihre Kinder blieb.