Quotes About Grief

post mortem triste

I don't imagine I'll ever get over missing him, Raymond said. Some things you don't get over. I believe this'll be one of them.

And they had folded his brother's hands across his suited chest, as if he would be preserved in this sanguine pose forever, but only the heavy callouses visible at the sides of his hands seemed real. It was only the callouses that appeared to be familiar and believable.

That was on a night in August. Dad Lewis died early that morning and the young girl Alice from next door got lost in the evening and then found her way home in the dark by the streetlights of town and so returned to the people who loved her. And in the fall the days turned cold and the leaves dropped off the trees and in the winter the wind blew from the mountains and out on the high plains of Holt County there were overnight storms and three-day blizzards.

FATBACK'S DEAD" The words on the slip of paper struck me like a blow. "Fatback's dead." It was not just the news itself, though the words cut deep. It was the very fact of the note, stuck on my windshield on the Red Lake Indian Reservation in northern Minnesota

Safia cried day and night as if she too had a hard time connecting this world with the one she'd left behind.

Though you have sailed no farther from me Than a quiet bay Beyond a point of cedars, Yet you have been as far away As death.

Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.

No one ever told me grief felt so much like fear.

Part of every misery is, so to speak, the misery's shadow or reflection: the fact that you don't merely suffer but have to keep on thinking about the fact that you suffer. I not only live each endless day in grief, but live each day thinking about living each day in grief.

When people die,' she said softly, 'It doesn't necessarily mean you're ready to give them up.

Forgetting is a kind of betrayal, even if it's what happens to all grief. Time wears everything smoother as it grinds past, I suppose.

In the end, I realised it was about mourning someone and being betrayed by a second of happiness that makes you forget your loss for a moment, and then feeling worse because that unthinking instant of happiness ends up feeling like a betrayal of the lost one.

A soul loves most what is lost...

the grief a man feels when he is forced to sacrifice his ideal and his conscious attitudes.

He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

A verdade é que a morte é uma brutalidade terrível - não pode haver ilusões a esse respeito -, não apenas como acontecimento físico, mas, ainda muito mais, como acontecimento psíquico: uma pessoa é-nos arrebatada e o que fica é um gélido silêncio sepulcral.

a weeping, unhealable wound

GRIEF IS SELFISH. It enshrouds us, clutches us to its desiccated breast like an anxious mother. It does not want us to leave, though we know we must if we are to survive. Only madness lies ahead for those who cannot escape it, for grief will consume those who have nothing else to live for.

P198 Describe John Moore's brother's death: but at heart I believe now, as I believed then, that it was essentially the result of growing up in a household, and a world, where emotional expression of any kind was at best frowned on and at worst strangled. Unfortunately, I'd stated this opinion during the funeral, and was nearly forced into an asylum as a result.

Every human being must find his own way to cope with such severe loss, and the only job of a true friend is to facilitate whatever method he chooses.

Every human being must find his own way to cope with severe loss, and the only job of a true friend is to facilitate whatever method he chooses.

News of your death. Tears, and the memory of all the times we talked the sun down the sky. You, Herakleitos of Halikarnassos, once my friend, now vacant dust, whose poems are nightingales beyond the clutch of the unseen god.

It took two," I said. "Two different people to make the Heartwood what it is. Two different experiences, grief and joy, combined. True love never has just one face, does it? It must always have two, or it isn't true love at all.