Quotes About Grief

Grief which is not dealt with properly can cause us to lose our perspective on life.

Grief turns us inward, but compassion turns us outward, and that's what we need when grief threatens to crush us. The Bible says, "Carry each other's burdens" [Galatians 6:2 NIV].

I might like to believe that every day, every hour, every minute of every hour of every day with Henry was *not* the happiest time I ever knew. I might like to believe that I am remembering it that way only because the happiest time ever makes it a better story. Because that's all you have left after people are gone from you, some things and some stories.

It is all too apparent: wounds never heal, but rather, in a torpid state deep inside the medial temporal lobe of the brain, grief waits for fresh release.

Sleep no more, Cypris, beneath thy purple coverlet, but awake to thy misery; put on the sable robe and fall to beating thy breast, and tell it to the world: The beauteous Adonis is dead.

Time heals griefs and quarrels, for we change and are no longer the same persons. Neither the offender nor the offended are any more themselves.

But if somebody dies, if something happens to you, there is a normal process of depression, it is part of being human, and some people view it as a learning experience etc.

In darkness there is death.

Whether we knew many who died on September 11 or personally knew none, we all lost something on that day. Innocence. Security. A trust that our homeland would always be safe.

Folk gråter för litet, visste de hur mycket de borde gråta skulle de aldrig sluta, börjar man gråta finns det inget slut på det.

Great crimes are always being committed in this world of ours, but surely the greatest is to murder love. So many years have passed, almost half a century; everything has gone, my fortune, title, youth, happiness... only grief has not passed and remains as fresh as though it were yesterday.

And loving a new person might even eventually dull the pain of having lost the people you have loved before, even if it didn't happen as quickly as you wanted it to. (p 99)

Wailing, keening, trying to explain the unexplainable. Trying to release himself and anyone who will listen from the prison of a human experience that cannot explain grief.

Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief. All kill their inspiration and sing about their grief.

U2's music was never really rock 'n' roll. Under its contemporary skin it's opera—a big music, big emotions unlocked in the pop music of the day. A tenor out front who won't accept he's a baritone. A small man singing giant songs. Wailing, keening, trying to explain the unexplainable. Trying to release himself and anyone who will listen from the prison of a human experience that cannot explain grief.

Augustine said he wept more for the death of Dido than he did for the death of his own saviour. What about Book Four, the best book of the best poem of the best poet?

Loneliness was also the young woman in black who came almost every day to the Polytechnic. She knew exactly which of all the tangled skeletons lying on the cold concrete were those of her little girl and her husband. She would go straight to one of the sixty-four doors of Murambi and stand in the middle of the room before two intertwined corpses: a man clutching a decapitated child against him. The young woman in black prayed in silence, and then left.

The dead are always available to us, just not how we'd prefer.

We had six healthy months and then six not-so-healthy months. I don't call them 'good' or 'bad' months. They're all good if you're doing the right thing. Do you know what I mean?" "Yeah," Augie says. "I know what you mean." "I made sure Hank was here when Doris died. We were both with her.

She would never forget her beautiful little boy. Never. No matter what. Not for a second. That was what she realized. You don't move past something like that—you learn to live with it. No matter how much pain you are in. You don't fight that pain. You don't push it away. You embrace it and let it become a part of you. It's the only way. The only thing more painful than remembering Matthew was the idea she might actually forget him.

He straightened out his car and shifted into drive. His foot pressed down upon the pedal. The speedometer climbed. Myron's face twisted into a mask of incognizant fury. Tears sheeted down his cheeks but no sound came with them. He drove without really seeing. When

I wanted to tell her that I loved her and appreciated her and wanted us, especially now that Mom was gone, to be closer, that I know Mom would have wanted that. But I couldn't. I hugged her instead. Selma stiffened at first, startled by my aberrant display of affection, but then she relaxed. "It'll be okay," she told me. I

It was the type of bad that made you want to do anything to please— —oh God please— —make it stop. It made you think about picking up a gun and silencing the sounds, if you knew where you were, if you knew that you were so close to your bedside table where you kept a gun in that small safe . . . Maya

Frank Ache stopped. He sniffled, used a once-giant hand to wipe his face. His receding hairline was gone now, though big tufts stayed on the side. His dark olive skin was now the gray of a city street after a rainstorm. "What