Quotes About Grief

My heart is so light that it's amazing. I get to play all this grief, all this loss, all this disaster and chaos. It's hysterically funny. I am very light.

Those who loved Ruth--so many--touched her hand, her shoulder, held her lightly, but no one could read the world inside other human bones. They could touch the skin and not feel the grief and pain it held only a skin's-width away.

Now it is as if I remember my grief rather than experience it. I remember the pain I suffered as the memories washed over me where I sat on the deck that day. Now I have only the memories of my own feelings, not the feelings themselves. That day the feelings were still alive, the pain real. Now I look back and I can see every detail but I am not there, inside it. My own pain is now forever calcified. I carry it with me, but it is no longer alive. (10)

My aloneness had never bothered me; I hadn't even been aware of it. But now it overwhelmed me. The awareness washed over me with painful sharpness and deep grief. Now that I had company.

I had accepted that all the dark memories were mine. But I had never realized that the beautiful ones were mine too. I had a right to them. And the right to embrace them, regardless of what happened before and after. I had a right to my happiness, as well as my grief.

Det er bare det vi har mistet, som fremstår som evig uforanderlig.

Life is a series of sudden disappearances, leave-takings without the proper goodbyes.

Jag vill inte dö, jag vill leva, men om hon dör finns det ingen plats för mig i den här världen.

He wasn't mad, he was sad.

Though it may be more romantic to picture the bereaved as gaunt, I imagine you can grieve as efficiently with chocolates as with tap water.

For the living, death is thievery.

This was food without you. Our loft, rich with the international booty of baskets and carvings, took on the tacky, cluttered aspect of an import outlet: This was our home without you. Objects had never seemed so inert, so pugnaciously incompensatory. Your remnants mocked me: the jump rope limp on its hook; the dirty socks, stiff, caricatured deflations of your size eleven feet.

I want to let all this go when it still hurts to let it go. When we can still feel a sense of loss. When what we're losing is still whole, and not corrupted, and diminished, and made dreadfully sad.

Mourning the death of strangers is a blunted butter knife experience, bearing no resemblance to the slicing, machete-like bereavement of losing someone you know.

Jayne was left an only child after her younger sister committed suicide in adolescence (a tragedy, yes, but one whose psychic statute of limitations might have run out by now - not that you'd get his wife to relinquish the trauma , which seemed to confer the special-protection status of landmark architecture.

The pain of lost love is as total, as self-obliterating an emotion as the initial ecstasy.

No! It can't be!" She screamed, "Raphael! I need you! Raphael … !" But there was no one to answer, and there never would be. She would haunt these halls forever, seeking him. For she was the Woman in Black.

brother died.

My mom died when I was 8.

I know it sounds like it was all just a terrible disaster. Of course it does. Any situation involving four dead bodies is clearly far from ideal.

Her daughter is dead and her mother is dead and her husband lives with a woman who is nicer than her in a hundred different ways. But she is OK.

When she left, she took with her any sense I had of myself as a worthwhile person. Without her I was just this blank space. When she died my whole world turned black.

Please don't be sorry. Please just cry for as long as you need to cry.

But it's terrifying to think that I never knew her at all. Not even a tiny bit.