Quotes About Grief

Grief from the war casts a shadow that at times was dense and at others seemed as pale as a length of gauze, but it was never gone.

Every boy had grown to manhood with a family of mother, father and village. A man and woman might have lost their son but they had also lost his best friend and the boys who had played football together in the street after school and cricket on the green in summer. "Who have we lost?" the words echoed in her ears.

And as she grieved, she realized that she had never trusted the world to keep herself or those she loved safe. From the moment of her mother's death, she had known that terror could be around the next corner at any moment. Had there ever been a time when she felt the clutch of fear in her gut loosen its grip, so that she could have faith in the future?

knew only too well that the path of grief could not be scripted.

She understood loss, understood how it could leach into every fiber of one's being; how it could dull the shine on a sunny day, and how it could replace happiness with doubt, giving rise to a lingering fear that good fortune might be snatched back at any time.

Then as each month, each year passed, it was as if the memory of you - of us… the explosion - were encased in a fine tissue-paper.' … 'I felt as if I were looking through a window to my own past, and instead of being transparent, my view was becoming more and more opaque, until eventually the time had passed. The time for coming to see you had passed.

Sometimes I feel as if, when you throw that big clod of earth onto the coffin, you're not just startin' to fill the 'ole in the ground but the big gapin' one that's been blown in your life.

Sometimes...you have to try to forget people you love just so you can keep living.

Jacquelyn Mitchard

La parte de tu muerte que me doy, la parte de tu muerte que yo puse de mi cosecha, cómo poder pagártela… Ni la parte de vida que tuvimos juntos.

Yes, humanity surges with uncontrolled passion. id tumultuous with ungoverned grief, is blown about by anxiety and doubt; only the wise man, only he whose thoughts are controlled and purified, makes the winds and the storms of the soul obey him.

humanity surges with uncontrolled passion, is tumultuous with ungoverned grief, is blown about by anxiety and doubt only the wise man, only he whose thoughts

Yes, humanity surges with uncontrolled passion, is tumultuous with ungoverned grief, is blown about by anxiety and doubt; only the wise man, only he whose thoughts are controlled and purified, makes the winds and the storms of the soul obey him.

There is no physician like cheerful thought for dissipating the ills of the body; there is no comforter to compare with goodwill for dispersing the shadows of grief and sorrow.

You are the creator of your own shadows; you desire and then you grieve; renounce and then you all rejoice.

But it was not the room's disorder which was frightening; it was the fact that when one began searching for the key to this disorder, one realized that it was not to be found in any of the usual places. For this was not a matter of habit or circumstance or temperament; it was a matter of punishment and grief.

The menfolk, they die, all right. And it's us women who walk around, like the Bible says, and mourn. The menfolk, they die, and it's over for them, but we women, we have to keep on living and try to forget what they done to us.

one day I'll weep for this. One of these days I'll start to cry.

He was sobbing, it would have been said, as though his heart would break.

Snow began to fall as he laid his head on the ice and cried. Alone in a Currier & Ives painting, beside a Victorian gazebo adorned with colorful Christmas lights, Bob Cole lost his only son.

Pulling away, I realized I had no place to go and nothing I wanted to do except satisfy my curiosity about a woman who was coming on like gangbusters and a big load of grief.

Were it up to me, I would be with Lilly. Were it up to me I would be asleep in her arms. She's dead, in a cooler in some fucking morgue, and i'll never sleep in her arms again. The thought of it makes me sick, and it makes me want to join her. The rose will help me. It is time to start the killing. Time to fucking start. (James Frey, pg.39)

I don't believe she's in Heaven and I don't believe she's in a better place. She's dead and when we're dead, we're gone. There are no blinding lights, there is no happy music, there are no Angels waiting to greet us.

He's gone, but my memory isn't and it won't be for a long time. It has always been a fault of mine. I hold my memory.