Quotes About Grief

When those you love deeply reject you, leave you, or die, your heart will be broken. But that should not hold you back from loving deeply.

Rembrandt's painting of the father, I can see three ways to a truly compassionate fatherhood: grief, forgiveness, and generosity.

I looked at the splendid drawings and paintings Rembrandt created in the midst of all his setbacks, disillusionment and grief. One must have died many deaths and cried many tears to have painted a portrait of God in such humility.

I can see three ways to a truly compassionate fatherhood: grief, forgiveness, and generosity. Grief is the discipline of the heart that sees the sin of the world, and knows itself to be the sorrowful price of freedom without which love cannot bloom. I am beginning to see that much of praying is grieving. Grief allows me to see beyond my wall and realize the immense suffering that results from human lostness.

Every man casts a shadow; not his body only, but his imperfectly mingled spirit. This is his grief. Let him turn which way he will, it falls opposite to the sun; short at noon, long at eve. Did you never see it?

attempting to moderate the grief of her friend by philosophical observations on the many disappointments to which human life is daily subject

The extremes of grief and joy have been remarked to produce very similar effects; and when either of these rushes on us by surprize, it is apt to create such a total perturbation and confusion, that we are often thereby deprived of the use of all our faculties.

We were alone with the quiet day, and his little heart, dispossessed, had stopped.

She found herself, for the first moment, looking at the mysterious portrait through tears. Perhaps it was her tears that made it just then so strange and fair ... the face of a young woman, all splendidly drawn, down to the hands, and splendidly dressed ... And she was dead, dead, dead

Isabel, he went on suddenly, I wish it were over for you. She answered nothing; she had burst into sobs; she remained so, with her buried face. He lay silent, listening to her sobs; at last he gave a long groan.

Nothing was a pleasure to her now; how could anything be a pleasure to a woman who knew that she had thrown away her life? There was an everlasting weight on her heart — there was a livid light on everything.

Sorrow comes in great waves—no one can know that better than you—but it rolls over us, and though it may almost smother us it leaves us on the spot and we know that if it is strong we are stronger, inasmuch as it passes and we remain.

When I realize that she is gone, perhaps gone forever, a great void opens up and I feel that I am falling, falling, falling into deep, black space. And this is worse than tears, deeper than regret or pain or sorrow; it is the abyss into which Satan was plunged. There is no climbing back, no ray of light, no sound of human voice or human touch of hand.

Passing beneath the dance hall, thinking again of this book, I realized suddenly that our life had come to an end: I realized that the book I was planning was nothing more than a tomb in which to bury her - and the me which had belonged to her. That was some time ago, and ever since I have been trying to write it. Why is it so difficult? Why? Because the idea of an end is intolerable to me.

I would like to suffocate with grief but instead I give birth to a rock.

Sedam kraj nje i ona pri?a - cela poplava ra?i. Divlje suši?ave note histerije, perverzije, gube. Ne ?ujem ni re?, zato što je lepa i ja je volim, i sada sam sre?an i želim umreti.

Time is to slow for those who wait, Too swift for those who fear, Too long for those who grieve, Too short for those who rejoice... But for those who love, Time is Eternity.

There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.

And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler,   Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.

It could go on for years and years, And has, for centuries, For being human holds a special grief Of privacy within the universe That yearns and waits to be retouched By someone who can take away The memory of death.

All that is left to one who grieves Is convalescence. No change of heart or spiritual Conversion, for the heart has changed And the soul has been converted To a thing that sees How much it costs to lose a friend it loved.

It is an old story But one that can still be told About a man who loved And lost a friend to death And learned he lacked the power To bring him back to life. It is the story of Gilgamesh And his friend Enkidu.

The only nourishment He knew was grief, endless in its hidden source Yet never ending hunger.

It is that inner atmosphere that has An unfamiliar gravity or none at all Where words are flung out in the air but stay Motionless without an answer, Hovering about one's lips Or arguing back to haunt The memory with what one failed to say, Until one learns acceptance of the silence Amidst the new debris Or turns again to grief As the only source of privacy, Alone with someone loved.