Quotes About Grief

When I was 20, my mother died and I went off the rails a little bit. I kinda had my slightly dark period.

Between the ages of 8 and 12 it was difficult to know what my father was saying, and he moved very slowly, and then he died.

To die is as if one's eyes had been put out and one cannot see anything any more. Perhaps it is like being shut in a cellar. One is abandoned by all. They have slammed the door and are gone. One does not see anything and notices only the damp smell of putrefaction.

I've seen so many women in my family, so many mothers, that have lost children in the war in such absurd ways. I wonder how they do it. How do they keep living? How do they keep smiling?

I think the fact that my wife died in Mexico City makes it very important to me; my life went up in smoke at that moment, the family and the future we were going to have. At that point, I was anchored to the city in a way I've never been anchored to a place before.

After I lost my mom, something snapped inside of me and I got really angry.

So many people that I've wanted to work with have died. I was so crazy in love with Amy Winehouse. When she died, I felt like I lost my sister all over again. I couldn't stop crying for weeks and weeks! It was horrible! She was so wonderful and so talented.

When I was younger, I had so many people in my family die. In my mind, heaven was as physical a place as home or school, and I knew that everyone I loved was together, enormously happy, and watching over me and awaiting my coming to this extraordinary place.

So many people break up after the loss of a child; it can be very destructive to a relationship.

We all have a variety of ways of avoiding our 'darkness' (wherein lies all our wounds/hurts/betrayals/ grief/loss etc.), ways of practicing a type of conscious forgetfulness in order to not to have to look at that place within us. However, there are times and occasions when we either choose to look into our 'pit' or we fall in, and we can become afraid, sad, or angry.

Il n'est pas de chagrin qu'un livre ne puisse consoler.

Light griefs can speak: deep sorrows are dumb.      —Seneca, Hippolytus, act ii. scene 3.] A

Locating a past event in measured time was something they could do with great effort, as a special favor, but Peter could tell they didn't see the point. Why should it matter exactly how many days, weeks, months or years ago a relative had died? A person was either living amongst them or in the ground.

There can be moments in a person's life," he suggested, "when grief over the loss of a loved one is stronger than faith.

You'll die, you'll die, I'll lose you. You'll go weird and distant and then one day you'll just disappear." She was weeping now. "I won't. I promise.

He strode in excitedly and they turned to face him. Dr Little looked grave and Aunt Nance had been crying. They didn't need to say anything. He knew that Zach was dead.

He knew that Zach was dead.

She wanted to die. She wanted to die. Because then it would be over. All the loss, all the grief, all the pain, the emptiness - over. And she had said nothing then. Nothing. Nor had she crawled into her room and swallowed her mother's pills, or crawled into her bath and opened up her own wrists. As if death were somehow personal. As if death were somehow an enemy that could be faced and stared down, she would not give it the satisfaction of seeing how badly it had hurt her. Again.

I barely knew her at all. She was on hold, someone I'd be friends with when she got her shit together. And then she died.

I'm not going to heal. Not if healing means shrugging your shoulders and saying 'Life goes on'. Life doesn't go on.

Oh, Christ. Word stuff, paper stuff, and that's neither words nor paper in that goddam little coffin, that's my son, my kid, my little dirty gap-toothed boy with the torn britches and the scabs on his knees, and he wasn't ever intended to ride thunder and bridle lightning, no man is. Pulp heroes were all made of wood and they could do it, but Dan's human and soft and easily broken. He hasn't any business there, no man has.

Strange, rapid, disconnected thoughts passed through his mind. 'Dead!' Then: 'They have killed him! . . .' And an absurd notion about immortality, the thought of which aroused a sense of unbearable grief.

The cat was untied and returned to its owner, having tasted grief, it's true, and having learned by experience the meaning of error and slander.

I become as easily accustomed to grief as to joy, and my life grows emptier day by day.