Quotes About Grief

Given a choice between grief and nothing, I'd choose grief.

Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy.

He could have set fire to it, the garden was dry enough, and burned it clean—privet, vines, and weeds; but he waited in his rooms through the winter instead, weeping and dreaming.

Whenever anybody whom we love dies, we discover that although death is commonplace it is terribly original. We may have thought about it all our lives, but if it comes close to us, it is quite a new, strange thing to us, for which we are entirely unprepared. It may, perhaps, not be the bare loss so much as the strength of the bond which is broken that is the surprise, and we are debtors in a way to death for revealing something in us which ordinary life disguises.

It is better to drink of deep griefs than to taste shallow pleasures.

I imagined grief as a large black crow sitting on my shoulder like a captious shadow, watching everything I did, usually content to sit there quietly, but sometimes cawing judgment in my ear.

LOSS COMES IN every moment. Second by second our lives are stolen from us. What is past will never come again.

NOTHING IS EVER everything, but the loss of a true love feels that way. All-consuming. The blackest hole. The emptiest place in the universe.

Sam's Place had never felt so empty. He suspected the emptiness was not in the old Quonset hut; it was in him. There was nothing in him now, nothing but the great emptiness of death, which he seemed to carry with him like a virus.

It's hard to say good-bye and almost impossible to accomplish this alone and ritual is the railing we hold to, all of us together, that keeps us upright and connected until the worst is past.

Loss comes in every moment. Second by second our lives are stolen from us. What is last will never come again.

Although I'd had no trouble looking at the casket the day before, on that Saturday I did my best to keep my eyes averted. I stared instead at the stained-glass window behind the altar and imagined shooting the panes out with a slingshot.

The daytime. The nighttime. Eating. Just lying here thinking. Nothing feels right. I keep waiting for her to come up the stairs and poke her head into our room and, you know, goof around with us." "I know what you mean," I said. "What do we do, Frank?" "I think we just keep going on. We keep doing what we always do and someday it'll feel right again." "Will it? Really?" "Yeah, I think so.

Whenever hope packed its bag and left for good, all that remained was a terrible emptiness, immeasurably sad.

They're never far from us, you know. ... The dead. No more'n a breath. You let the last one go and you're with them again.

The sound of his deep sobs was enough to make a stone weep. It's impossible to witness such open grief and not feel pity wrung from your heart... I couldn't recall ever hearing a grown man cry this way. It made me think that no matter how big we grew or how old, there was always a child in us somewhere.

Grief doesn't come in the moment of loss. It comes in the quiet of the aftermath...she didn't feel grief. In a way, what she felt was emptiness. Her mind told her he was dead. Her heart was not there yet.

I'd considered loss only from my own perspective and Albert's and Mose's and Emmy's, because our parents had been taken from us. But it worked the other way, too. Losing a child, that had to be akin to losing a good part of your heart.

NOTHING IS EVER everything, but the loss of a true love feels that way.

His father had been murdered fifteen hundred miles away. He was just gone. He became the emptiness of the cabin, and that's how Ren had thought of death. Emptiness. A grabbing at air. A conversation stopped in mid-sentence. A body from which the soul had simply departed.

Yeah." Parrant gave him a brief smile of thanks. But he was a man way on the other side of something terrible, and the look in his eyes came from far, far away.

over our house. My mother became nearly mute and more often than not the only sound from her was weeping. She kept the curtains drawn so that it felt as if permanent night had fallen. Never much concerned anyway with her mundane domestic duties she completely stopped cooking and cleaning and sat for hours in the quiet dark of the living room. She was flesh without spirit, eyes without sight. It felt as

In a way, he was afraid that to let go of the grieving would be to let go of his father forever.

Studies have shown that fathers of murdered children often die within a few years of the murder, often of heart failure. Really, they die of grief.