Quotes About Grief

Ahora sentía la magnitud de la pérdida de Pipo. El cuerpo mutilado en la falda de la colina no era su muerte, sino simplemente los despojos de su muerte. La muerte en sí era el vacío dejado en su vida.

Novinha could not bear the prospect of company, of kindness, of people trying to console her.

To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.

Requiescat Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone She is at rest. Peace, Peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life's buried here, Heap earth upon it.

It bothered him to think that the listeners might look at him as a broken down reel, trapped by sameness of his grief. Afterwards he would realize he had left out whole chunks of what he truly wanted to say.

She lasted three months, then passed on a September day when everything seemed split open with sunlight.

Come on, Avery. Fresh tears stained her cheeks. Her voice shook. Wake up, damn it! She sobbed, rocking forward and back, her arms wrapping tightly around his big body. Don't you want to shout at me for disobeying you, you overbearing, domineering male? She squeezed her eyes shut and bit hard on her lip. He couldn't die. He was too stubborn, too alive, too vigorous. And she couldn't lose him. She loved him too much. I… am a… gentleman, she heard him gasp. I never shout at women.

then in a conversational tone said, I slapped my Aunt Martha. When my fiancé died. She told me God needed him in heaven, and I hauled off and slapped her, a sixty year old woman....People say unbelievable things to you. They deserve slapping.

This is Prue's funeral, can't we bury our sister in peace?!

No lists of things to be done. The day providential to itself. The hour. There is no later. This is later. All things of grace and beauty such that one holds them to one's heart have a common provenance in pain. Their birth in grief and ashes.

What would you do if I died? If you died I would want to die too. So you could be with me? Yes. So I could be with you. Okay.

All things of grace and beauty such that one holds them to one's heart have a common provenance in pain. Their birth in grief and ashes.

The closest bonds we will ever know are bonds of grief. The deepest community one of sorrow.

Grief is the stuff of life. A life without grief is no life at all. But regret is a prison. Some part of you which you deeply value lies forever impaled at a crossroads you can no longer find and never forget.

She looked up at him and her face was pale and austere in the uplight and her eyes lost in their darkly shadowed hollows save only for the glint of them and he could see her throat move in the light and he saw in her face and in her figure something he'd not seen before and the name of that thing was sorrow.

She was gone and the coldness of it was her final gift.

Mercy is in the province of the person alone. There is mass hatred and mass grief. Mass vengeance and even mass suicide. But there is no mass forgiveness. There is only you.

Just take me with you. Please. I cant. Please, Papa. I cant. I cant hold my son dead in my arms. I thought I could but I cant.

All things of grace and beauty such that one holds them to one's heart have a common provenance in pain. Their birth in grief and ashes. So, he whispered to the sleeping boy. I have you.

He said that even the damned in hell have the community of their suffering and he thought that he'd guessed out likewise for the living a nominal grief like a grange from which disaster and ruin are proportioned by laws of equity too subtle for divining.

Sorry. Don't need sorry. Not in this house. Sorry laid the hearth here. Sorry ways and sorry people and heavensent grief and heartache to make you pine for your death.

There is no book and your fathers are dead in the ground.

Rage is only for what you believe can be fixed. All the rest is grief.

The elevation of grief to a status transcending that which it sorrows.