Quotes About Grief

Liir held Chistery in his lap and sobbed into his scalp. Chistery said, Well, we'll wail while woe'll wheel, and he cried along with Liir.

and Ama Clutch was gone, and the overly subordinate pillowcase took a small spill of human juice from the edge of her slackened mouth.

Perhaps he just didn't have the feeling for faith. It seemed to be a kind of language, one whose gnarled syntax needed to be heard from birth, or it remained forever unintelligible. But he wished he had a faith now, some scrap for something: for elphaba was dead, and to act as if the world were no more changed than if some branch of a tree had snapped off- well, it didn't seem right.

Her head had turned quickly away...Not to hide her tears but to soften the fact of their absence.

Her head had turned away quickly as she stepped down, not to hide her tears but to soften the fact of their absence.

Those who sit in the house of grief will someday sit in the garden.

The funeral was modest, a love-her-and-shove-her affair.

And every time we hear people talk about Heaven or angels or past lives or their loved ones being in a better place and looking down on them right now, we're reminded: "Oh, yeah. We don't think that. We think that when we die, we die forever. We don't think our dead loved ones are with God. We think that they're fucking dead." We have to face death a little bit, every day of our lives. It's like an inoculation.

Death sucks — and it should. Life is precious, and we should treasure it, and mourn its loss.

For many grieving non-believers, the "comforts" of religion and religious views of death present a terrible choice: Either pretend to agree with ideas they reject and in many cases actively oppose — or open up about their non-belief, and start a potentially divisive argument at a time when they most need connection and comfort.

Loss constitutes an odd kind of fullness; despair empties out into an unquenchable appetite for life.

Sadness is a vice.

There is always after the death of anyone a kind of stupefaction; so difficult is it to grasp this advent of nothingness and to resign ourselves to believe in it.

He dreamed of funeral love, but dreams crumble and the tomb abides

On the grave among the pine trees, a boy knelt weeping, his chest, racked by sobs, heaving in the darkness, oppressed by an immense grief gentler than the moon and more unfathomable than the night.

Death always brings with it a kind of stupefaction, so difficult is it for the human mind to realize and resign itself to the blank and utter nothingness.

Sur la fosse, entre les sapins, un enfant pleurait agenouillé, et sa poitrine, brisée par les sanglots, haletait dans l'ombre, sous la pression d'un regret immense plus doux que la lune et plus insondable que la nuit.

Alles eek haar gehuld in een zwart waas dat over het oppervlak van de dingen zweefde, en het verdriet trok zacht huilend door haar ziel, als de winterwind door een verlaten kasteel. Het was zo'n mijmeren waarin men verzinkt om wat nooit meer terugkomt, een matheid die ons telkens overvalt na een niet te herroepen daad, een smart ten slotte, veroorzaakt door het stokken van een vertrouwde beweging, door het abrupt stilvallen van een lang aangehouden trilling.

The next day, for Emma, was funereal. Everything appeared to her shrouded in a black mist that hovered uncertainly over the surface of things, and grief plunged deep into her soul, moaning softly like the winter wind in an abandonded chateau. She sank into that kind of brooding which comes when you lose something forever, that lassitude you feel after every irreversible event, that pain you suffer when a habitual movement is interrupted, when a long-sustained vibration is suddenly broken off.

When he woke up in the darkness of his hot and stuffy room he felt, even before his mind began working again, that painful oppression or malaise of the soul left in us by some grief we have slept on. It seems as though the misfortune which merely grazed us the day before has worked its way during our sleep into our very flesh and is bruising and exhausting it like a fever.

But this pleasure was not unalloyed with pain, and it seemed as if the universal joy of the awakening world could now only impart a delight which was half sorrow to her grief-crushed soul and withered heart.

First my husband, then my parents died. After that I lost my two sisters. When death comes to someone's home it's as if it wants to get as much done as quickly as possible to save coming again for a long time.

A terrible event had broken him down. He had fallen madly in love with a young girl and married her in a kind of dreamlike ecstasy. After a year of unalloyed bliss and unexhausted passion, she had died suddenly of heart disease, no doubt killed by love itself.

Ice is for death and endings.