Quotes About Grief

I wanted to cry but I didn't, I probably should have cried, I should have drowned us there in the room ending our suffering.

I didn't understand why I needed help, because it seemed to me that you should wear heavy boots when your dad dies, and if you aren't wearing heavy boots, then you need help.

A few weeks after the worst day, I started writing lots of letters. I don't know why, but it was one of the only things that made my boots lighter.

I try not to remember the life that I didn't want to lose but lost and have to remember

I said, 'I need to know how he died.' He flipped back and pointed at, 'Why?' So I can stop inventing how he died. I'm always inventing.

Oskar Schell: If the sun were to explode, you wouldn't even know about it for 8 minutes because thats how long it takes for light to travel to us. For eight minutes the world would still be bright and it would still feel warm. It was a year since my dad died and I could feel my eight minutes with him... were running out.

In the end, everyone loses everyone.

Your dad didn't die, so I won't be able to explain it to you.

In the morning, when the nothing vase casts a something shadow, like the memory of someone you've lost, what can you say about that?

I opened the coffin. I was surprised again, although again I shouldn't have been. I was surprised that Dad wasn't there. In my brain I knew he wouldn't be, obviously, but I guess my heart believed something else. Or maybe I was surprised by incredibly empty it was. I felt like I was looking into the dictionary definition of emptiness.

I didn't want to hear about death. It was all anyone talked about, even when no one was actually talking about it.

there were so many different ways to die, and I just need to know which was his.

He would wake from sleep to miss the weight that never depress the bed next to him, remember in earnest the weight of gestures she never made, long for the un-weight of her un-arm slung over his too real chest, making his widower's remembrances that much more convincing and the pain that much more real.

Hüznü aÅŸman?n tek yolu onu tüketmektir (...)

Every widow wakes one morning, perhaps after years of pure and unwavering grieving, to realize she has slept a good night's sleep, and will be able to eat breakfast, and doesn't hear her husband's ghost all the time, but only some of the time.

My father's face, when he said that, dissolved into a stillness, a sad expression, sadder than human feeling.

But that slip of paper wouldn't disappear, ever, and neither would the image of his prostrate wife, and neither would the thought that if he could, it might greatly improve his life to end it.

But I knew that there couldn't be pockets that enormous. In the end, everyone loses everyone.

Her grief is replaced with a useful sadness.

Every parent who loses a child finds a way to laugh again. The timbre begins to fade. The edge dulls. The hurt lessens. Every love is carved from loss.

I couldn't explain to her that I missed him more, more than she or anyone else missed him, because I could't tell her about what happened with the phone. That secret was a hole in the middle of me that every happy thing fell into.

Isaac was buried in a pocketless shroud, six hundred yards from his wife of two hundred thousand hours.

Men become mothers to one another in combat. The grief and rage that they experience when the special comrade is killed appears virtually identical to that of a child suddenly orphaned, and they feel that the mother within them has died with the friend.

the emergence of rage out of intense grief is a biological universal and that long-term obstruction of grief and failure to communalize grief and can lock a person in chronic rage.