Quotes About Grief

Mama," Peter cried. She didn't look up. The door shut.

Krampus's voice trailed off, he glanced at Jesse. Jesse's head lay on his shoulder, his eyes closed; there came no sign of breath. "It appears I am talking to myself." Krampus crossed his arms atop his chest and grunted.

Stop your weeping. Grief is for the dead.

Abitha is dead, they killed her, all that is left is wrath and malice … my restless soul. Do you understand?

You killed my Booka," she hissed. "I loved my Booka.

Grief:" You don't get over it you just get through it you don't get by it because you can't get around it it doesn't "get better" it just gets different every day . . . grief puts on a new face.

Brook, you don't sound like yourself." My reply came out of my mouth before I could choose it. "I am not the person I was three weeks ago and I will never be that person again." Surprised by my own response, I relayed it to my therapist who was helping me work through issues surrounding my brother's death. "Of course you're not," she said. "And one of the best things you can do for yourself is to know that you are a different person now.

the grief associated with bereavement is one of the most profound of all human emotions—and one of the most lethal.

My father's death, my move, and my frightening and difficult delivery created a tremendous amount of stress, pain, and sadness for me. I was practically devastated beyond recovery.

Stephen Colbert still mourns. "Grief," he said, "will always accept the invitation to appear. It's got plenty of time for you.

Oh, lonely death on lonely life! Oh, now I feel my topmost greatness lies in my topmost grief.

Each silent worshipper seemed purposely sitting apart from the other, as if each silent grief were insular and incommunicable.

how it is that we still refuse to be comforted for those who we nevertheless maintain are dwelling in unspeakable bliss; why all the living so strive to hush all the dead; wherefore but the rumor of a knocking in a tomb will terrify a whole city. All these things are not without their meanings.

In peacetime it is sons who bury their fathers Ã¢â'¬â€œ but in times of war, it is fathers who bury their sons.

When a child is born to them, his relatives sit around and him and grieve over all the evils he will have to endure later, recounting all the things humans must suffer. But when someone dies, they have fun and take pleasure in burying him in the ground, reciting over him all the evils he has escaped and how he is now in a state of complete bliss.

He once thought it himself, that he might die with grief: for his wife, his daughters, his sisters, his father and master the cardinal. But pulse, obdurate, keeps its rhythm. You think you cannot keep breathing, but your ribcage has other ideas, rising and falling, emitting sighs. You must thrive in spite of yourself; and so that you may do it, God takes out your heart of flesh, and gives you a heart of stone.

I'm sure you've heard people use the term, You just don't get it. Well, I figured out the 'it' is the point in life. I believe I was supposed to have been there when my father died, but it was a point in life I just didn't get.

And overpowered by memory Both men gave way to grief. Priam wept freely For man - killing Hector, throbbing, crouching Before Achilles' feet as Achilles wept himself, Now for his father, now for Patroclus once again And their sobbing rose and fell throughout the house.

Why have you come to me here, dear heart, with all these instructions? I promise you I will do everything just as you ask. But come closer. Let us give in to grief, however briefly, in each other's arms.

Even his griefs are a joy long after to one that remembers all that he wrought and endured.

but there they lay, sprawled across the field, craved far more by the vultures than by wives.

And his good wife will tear her cheeks in grief, his sons are orphans and he, soaking the soil red with his own blood, he rots away himself—more birds than women flocking round his body!

When night falls and the world lies lost in sleep, I take to my bed, my heart throbbing, about to break, anxieties swarming, piercing—I may go mad with grief.

Vain is your boast in that you have scratched the sole of my foot... A worthless coward can inflict but a light wound. When I wound a man, though I but graze his skin, it is another matter, for my weapon will lay him low. His wife will tear her cheeks out for grief and his children will be fatherless: there he will rot, reddening the earth with his blood, and vultures, not women, will gather round him.