Quotes About Mourning

Until now I had been able only to grieve, not mourn. Grief was passive. Grief happened. Mourning, the act of dealing with grief, required attention.

She's dead, you stupid cat. She's dead.

But we do not need to recount every sermon and eulogy. After all, you were there.

Our atheist thoughts go out to his family following their loss.

Only the survivors of a death are truly left alone.

I was dead, and I hadn't even been able to attend my own funeral.

There will be no beautiful widow with Persian eyes sitting at your grave. And teary-eyed kids won't be asking: "Papa, papa, can you hear us?

We cry for ourselves, don't we? Not for the dead. The dead are past caring.

Graveyards exist because death exists? No! Graveyards exist because we want to know precisely the place of our dead!

Lady Moon rose an' gazed o'er my busted'n'beautsome Valleys with silv'ry'n'sorryin' eyes, an' the dingos mourned for the died uns.

Mourn for the living, the dead have got their camphor gardens.

They say such nice things about people at their funerals that it makes me sad to realize I'm going to miss mine by just a few days.

I know nothing new except that Herr Gellert, the Leipzig poet, is dead, and has written no more poetry since his death.

I've never really had anybody close to me die. I think the song is about a feeling that I have that, it still applies. It's a feeling of longing, once again.

The funeral was over, at last I could cry. Except that I couldn't. My tears, kept in too long, had fossilized. They would have to stay in forever now.

Gone were her fiery orange and resplendent purple. She was dressed in a white long-sleeved chemise, and she was weeping.

regretted that he had to comfort me for his own loss.

Terminado el entierro, por fin podría llorar. Pero no pude. Mi lágrimas, contenidas durante demasiado tiempo, se habían secado. Tendrían que quedarse dentro para siempre.

My husband ...has passed away. This is a euphemism, of course. I mean to say that he is dead. He is departed from this world. He is elsewhere and singing with the angels...there is another euphemism: singing with the angels. I ask you, why is it so hard to stay away from euphemisms? They creep in, always, and attempt to make the difficult things more pleasing.

You think that their dying is the worst thing that could happen. Then they stay dead.

El padre de Jordana falleció el año pasado. Recuerdo cuándo sucedió, cómo se le notaba en los ojos después esa muerte, como un alfiler clavado en el centro de su ser. Duelo, pérdida, dolor, resistencia ante todo ello. Me obligo a mirarla de nuevo. Ahí está, la veo. La tristeza. Un añadido permanente, incluso cuando Jordana está en frascada en otras cosas, como nuestra clase. ¿También yo la tengo en la cara?

with a grief no less sharp for not being intimate with its object.

Lying awake, I tried to recall all my best memories of her – to freeze her in my mind so I wouldn't forget her – but instead of birthdays and happy times I kept remembering things like how a few days before she was killed she'd stopped me halfway out the door to pick a thread off my school jacket.

We were heading into the clumsy territory of my mother's funeral, stretched-out silences, wrong smiles, the place where words didn't work.