Quotes About Grief

Lying all night, holding Clara, he'd dared to hope that the worst was over. That maybe the grief, while still there, would today allow some of his wife to be present. But the woman he knew and loved had been swallowed up. Like Jonah. Her white whale of sorrow and loss in an ocean of body fluid.

Grief was dagger-shaped and sharp and pointed inward. It was made of fresh loss and old sorrow. Rendered and forged and sometimes polished.

The dead woman's name is Jane Neal,' Gamache knew it was a false kindness to cushion a blow like this.

And then he remembered. And lost her again, the island drifting farther out to sea. For Robert Mongeau there would always be a before and an after. All events would henceforth be dated from Sylvie alive and Sylvie dead.

He fell silent, remembering. And then he remembered. And lost her again, the island drifting farther out to sea. For Robert Mongeau there would always be a before and an after. All events would henceforth be dated from Sylvie alive and Sylvie dead.

This village was old, and you don't get to be old without knowing grief. And loss.

one day Jean-Guy Beauvoir understood that when people died, they didn't go away. They were very much alive in the minds, in the hearts, in the vivid memories of those left behind. And they were not always easy to live with. Some ghosts had demands.

If one hadn't died with a hole in her heart,' said Nichol. Clara winced.

Grief was dagger-shaped and sharp and pointed inward. It was made of fresh loss and old sorrow. Rendered and forged and sometimes polished. Irene

Loss was like that, Gamache knew. You didn't just lose a loved one. You lost your heart, your memories, your laughter, your brain and it even took your bones. Eventually it all came back, but different. Rearranged

Much missed by… Why were there no words that felt? Words that when you touched them you'd feel what was intended? The chasm left by the loss of Madeleine? The lump in the throat that fizzed and ached. The terror of falling asleep knowing that on waking she'd relive the loss, like Prometheus bound and tormented each day. Everything had changed. Even her grammar. Suddenly she lived in the past tense. And the singular.

She put another small log on the fire and listened to the quiet murmur of Peter and Ben. She couldn't make out the words, just the familiarity. Another wave of sadness enveloped her. She'd lost her murmuring partner. The one with whom she made comforting noises.

I know, I know, I know she's with God," said Robert. "I know she's at peace. But oh God, oh God.

I am a pop widow.

Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; Everything is happy now.

One thing I do know about death. The "better" the person, the more loving and happy and caring, the less of a gap that person's death makes.

When your parents are dead your own death faces you.

The day my father killed off my mother was the day he stopped knowing me.

Watcha gonna do when I'm gone, Maggie?... I'll do macrame, punk.

Una cosa sé de la muerte. Cuanto "mejor" es la persona, cuanto más cariñosa, feliz y comprensiva, menor es el vacío que deja su muerte.

I can't handle you being dead, Ter. But you know that.

From 'Periodic Table of Elements': A girl ago, a girlhood gone like a phial of ether | Thrown on fire--just | A little jump of flame, like grief, or | Like a penicillin that has lost its skill at killing | Off, it then is gone.

they will empty your eyes of everything you love