Quotes About Grief

Losing a friend is a terrible thing, the memories it shakes loose, even if you've drifted apart. The panicky feeling that you're losing bits of yourself.

Murder is the one crime that can't be put right. It upsets the balance. The dead can't be restored like stolen property; death doesn't heal like physical or emotional scars left by assault or rape. It's final. The end...

Our glorious warrior Jason is probably lying on some mortuary table, cut open from th'nave to th'chops as we speak, and the three bastards who put him there, the three brown bastards who put him there, are out walking the streets." He slammed the table again. "What do you think about that?

Fool, he told himself. He had been looking for Keith Rothwell in Robert Calvert's flat. But he wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere; he was just a slab of chilled meat waiting for a man with his collar on the wrong way around to chant a few meaningless words that might just ease the living's fear of death until the next time it touched too close to home for comfort.

I've always held something back. The part of me I probably shouldn't have held back if I wanted any sort of meaningful relationship. The part that won't let you get close to anyone ever again because you know you're going to lose them, and you know how bad it feels. Because they're going to die.

He remembered the faces of his friends, bereft poor corpses, abandoned of life.

what terrible pain—the pain of what I had not done, of what I had lost because I had not done all of that which I had not done. Whatever it was, I had no idea, I knew only that I had not done it.

But to grieve; it's to die and be alive at the same time.

The cries of the dead are terrible indeed; you should try not to hear them.

You know what the doctor said to me to cheer me up? Fat said. There are worse diseases than cancer. Did he show you slides? We both laughed. When you are nearly crazy with grief, you laugh at what you can.

Why does a man cry? he wondered. Not like a woman; not for that. Not for sentiment. A man cries over the loss of something, something alive. A man can cry over a sick animal that he knows won't make it. The death of a child: a man can cry for that. But not because things are sad. A man, he thought, cries not for the future or the past but for the present.

to have watched a human being you loved deeply, that you had gotten real close to, held and slept with and kissed and worried about and befriended and most of all admired—to see that warm living person burn out from the inside, burn from the heart outward. Until it clicked and clacked like an insect, repeating one sentence again and again. A recording. A closed loop of tape.

women always put on too much makeup when someone dies.

But to grieve; it's to die and be alive at the same time. The most absolute, overpowering experience you can feel, therefore. Sometimes I swear we weren't constructed to go through such a thing; it's too much - your body damn near self-destructs with all that heaving and surging.

And you can't feel grief unless you've had love before it—grief is the final outcome of love, because it's love lost.

Naturally, Mrs. Knudson wore too much makeup; women always put on too much makeup when someone dies.

Then she was pressing her little proud broken self against his face, as close as she could get, and then they died.

He nestled in her arms, and she knew she would rather die than let them be parted and face that sadness again; it would send her mad with grief and terror.

And she sobbed so passionately he thought that hearts really did break, and hers was breaking now, for she fell to the ground wailing and shuddering, and Pantalaimon beside her became a wolf and howled with bitter grief.

We love them; they are brave, proud, beautiful, clever; and they die almost at once. They die so soon that our hearts are continually racked with pain. We

Pan hated seeing people die, because of what happened to their dæmons: they vanished like a candle flame going out. He wanted to console this poor creature, who knew she was going to disappear, but all she wanted to do was feel a last touch of the warmth she'd found in her man's body all their lives together. The man took a shallow, rasping breath, and then the pretty hawk dæmon drifted out of existence altogether.

Everyone wishes they could speak again to those who've gone to the land of the dead.

It was the loneliness of his death that upset Malcolm most.

Men we have never met took our son. They took him without our express permission. They tortured him then they … killed him. And there is no understanding it. There is no meaning. No coming to terms with it. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. We will wake up every day for the rest of our lives and we will breathe razor blades and we will swim through bleach. And there is no escape from this. There is no comfort. There is just … blades and bleach. Until we die.