Quotes About Grief

Screw you, Aech! And your dead grandma!

He died when he was only nineteen years old. I was still a baby at the time, so I didn't remember him. Growing up, I'd always told myself that was lucky. Because you can't miss someone you don't remember. But the truth was, I did miss him.

Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind,' Ã¢â'¬Â the young woman recited. " Ã¢â'¬ËœAnd makes it fearful and degenerate; Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep.

We must take time to weep for our fallen compañeros while we sharpen our machetes

Dead men by mass production––in one country after another––month after month and year after year. Dead men in winter and dead men in summer. Dead men in such familiar promiscuity that they become monotonous. Dead men in such monstrous infinity that you come almost to hate them. These are the things that you at home need not even try to understand.

His death brings new experience to my life - that of a wound that will not heal.

You stay in the war because it would be shameful to stay out of it. An then grief seizes you and hold its grip till anger has turned you into a soldier.

Il mio lutto per lui è una pozza d'acqua marina prosciugata. Tra gli scogli resta il sale asciutto, dei singhiozzi a secco.

death that tears away clumps of us folks, stuffs thousands of the living, freshly plucked into its sack.

It's disgusting to kill, Laila. You never get rid of death's grease. It doesn't wash away.

The dead have no compassion for the living.

By my third try, Lady Aithra had lost her patience and brought me to stand before her son while he was in conference with a group of hard-faced Athenian nobles. I smiled unashamedly when she called me willful, wild, and ungrateful, which provoked her so much that she actually dared to declare, "My son, you must not marry this girl. I don't care how beautiful she is, she'll bring us nothing but grief and leave Athens in flames!

The guy on the roof nods--it looks like this time, he heard something--and shouts back at me, "How did you know? How did you know she died?" Someone always dies, I want to yell back at him. Always. If not her, then someone else.

I think she cried at my funeral. It's not that I'm conceited or anything, but I'm pretty sure. Sometimes I can actually picture her talking about me to some guy she feels close to. Talking about me dying. About how they lowered me into the grave, kind of shrivelled up and pitiful, like an old chocolate bar. About how we never really got a chance. And afterwards the guy fucks her, a fuck that's all about making her feel better.

But again and again that night there came to him Meg's white, still face as it lay on the scarlet cushions, and he knew the wind that stirred the curtains at the window had been playing with the long grass in the churchyard a few minutes since.

The mother had taken the visitors' room to sleep in ever since the day two months ago when Death had walked whitely into that larger room and frozen with his strange breath the father of her youngest child.

Give your sorrow all the space and shelter in yourself that is its due, for if everyone bears grief honestly and courageously, the sorrow that now fills the world will abate. But if you do instead reserve most of the space inside you for hatred and thoughts of revenge-from which new sorrows will be born for others-then sorrow will never cease in this world. And if you have given sorrow the space it demands, then you may truly say: life is beautiful and so rich.

Each of the beings necessary to our existence who disappears takes away with him a whole world of feelings that no other relationship can revive.

The day before yesterday, as I was calmly reading ... I saw a reduced vision of my son Yuri's face, but dead, in a horizontal position, his eyes closed.

A beautiful discipline of the soul can become sappy, mindless counsel, if we divorce it from the biblical roots of honesty, grief, lament, and genuine celebration from which it originates. No! If we are to live praising lives, robust lives of affirmation, we must live truly, honestly, and courageously. We cannot take shortcuts to the act of praising. We cannot praise prematurely.

The dead! Why can't the dead die!

Never since the dawn of Russian history had there been such a time of fear, grief and horror – a time described by the poetess Akhmatova as 'When only the dead could smile'.

A sweet thing, for whatever time,to revisit in dreams the dear dead we have lost.

Lucky that man whose children make his happiness in life and not his grief, the anguished disappointment of his hopes.