Quotes About Grief

Maybe this was how my life was going to be. I'd always lose the men I loved.

Da schlug er jäh die Hände vors Gesicht, wie er so kniete, um nichts zu sehen mehr nach diesem Lächeln.

have I heard that grief softens the mind, and makes it fearful and degenerate; think therefore on revenge and cease to weep.'" Veronica wasn't sure which play the quote was from, but she knew exactly what it meant: You get tough. You get even. You get tough. Had Mars Investigations been the sort of outfit that bothered to draft a list of its "Core Values," that would've been a top fiver.

Her strategy for honoring the dead had always been to take action - solve the mystery, punish the criminal. But what did you do when there was no one to punish? When there were no answers to find? How do you assimilate that kind of loss without losing your mind?

Time would never cure it. Almost half a century later, when she was the only one of the nine Kennedy siblings still living, the author would ask Jean Kennedy Smith about her brother Bobby and his depression over Jack's death. "When did he come out of that?" she repeated, and then said, "I don't think he ever came out of that.

It's a nasty story. I got that much before my informant sobered up. Dr. Ward Smith delivered his wife by Caesarean section—and she died on the table. What he did next shows that he knew the score; with the same scalpel he cut Captain Brant's throat—then his own. Sorry, hon." Jill

A dead person's clothes should be given away or burned; nothing should be kept that does not inspire happy memories.

So far so good. I had a recently widowed mother and her orphaned son crying hysterically. Maybe for an encore I could shoot the family dog.

It's all right, he said, wondering at the same time why there were no better words, why there never are any better words to answer fear and grief and loneliness. It's all right, believe me.

It's all right, he said, wondering at the same time why there were no better words, why there never are any better words to answer fear and grief and loneliness.

It's all right," he said, wondering at the same time why there were no better words, why there never are any better words to answer fear and grief and loneliness.

Smiling the boy fell dead.

Let me weep My youth and its brave hopes, all dead and gone, In tears which burn.

But little Mouse, you are not alone, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes of mice and men Go often askew, And leave us nothing but grief and pain, For promised joy! Still you are blest, compared with me!

In the multitude of wisdom is grief, and they that increaseth wisdom, increaseth sorrow.

Was this all there was to life, after all? You finished school, found an occupation, got married, became a father, watched your wife die, and then lived through days and nights that seemed to have no sunrises, no dawns and no dusks, nothing but a gray drabness.

and you would never know they were gone, but losing a child left an emptiness so large it screamed to be filled with memories.

Mrs. Bartello opened the screen wider, her eyes bunching with sorrow. "I'm sorry. You don't know. I'm sorry. Donna passed away." Holman felt himself slow as if he had been drugged; as if his heart and breath and the blood in his veins were winding down like a phonograph record when you pulled the plug. First Richie, now Donna. He didn't say anything, and Mrs. Bartello's sorrowful eyes grew knowing. She

Grievances are a form of impatience. Griefs are a form of patience.

No, from the time when one is sick to death, One is alone, and he dies more alone. Friends make pretense of following to the grave, But before one is in it, their minds are turned And making the best of their way back to life And living people, and things they understand.

They told me that Billy would never come back any more, and I stared out of the window at the sun which came back, right enough, every day, and their news conveyed nothing whatever to me.

He had seen photographs of people whose tragedies had turned their faces to transparent glass, had even taken a few: survivors of house fires and hunting accidents whose grief was distinguished by a wide-open compassion that extended outward in every direction.

And if it went, if the murderer was caught, they would have to face all over again the stark early morning truth that it solved nothing, that Sabine was still lost for ever.

She would never leave her mark on Mammy's heart the way her brothers had, because Mammy's heart was like a pallid beach where Laila's footprints would forever wash away beneath the waves of sorrow that swelled and crashed, swelled and crashed.