Quotes About Mourning

Perhaps it is the greatest grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone.

When he was gone, would I be like Achilles sailing over his lost lover Patroclus? I tried to picture myself running up and down the beaches, tearing at my hair, cradling some scrap of old tunic he had left behind. Crying out for the loss of half my soul.

not when I stood in his blood.

perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone.

Achilles weeps.

And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone. Do you think?

when he was gone would i be like achilles, wailing over his lost lover patroclus? i tried to picture myself running up and down the beaches, tearing at my hair, cradling some scrap of old tunic he had left behind. crying out for the loss of half my soul

HE WEEPS as he lifts me onto our bed. My corpse sags; it is warm in the tent, and the smell will come soon. He does not seem to care. He holds me all night long, pressing my cold hands to his mouth.

It is like a tomb. This is what it will be, every day, without him.

And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth while another is gone.

You care more for him in death than in life.

When he was gone, would I be like Achilles, wailing over his lost lover Patroclus? I tried to picture myself running up and down the beaches, tearing at my hair, cradling some scrap of old tunic he had left behind. Crying for the loss of half my soul.

And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone

That men worshipped him like a god, but no one mourned.

She pressed the veil against her cheeks, letting it drink up her tears.

She thinks, This cannot happen, it cannot, how will we live, what will we do, how can Judith bear it, what will I tell people, how can we continue, what should I have done, where is my husband, what will he say, how could I have saved him, why didn't I save him, why didn't I realise that it was he who was in danger? And then, the focus narrows, and she thinks: He is dead, he is dead, he is dead.

To walk by his grave every Sunday is both a pain and a pleasure. She wants to lie there so that her body covers it. She wants to dig down with her bare hands. She wants to strike it with a tree branch. She wants to build a structure over it, to shield it from the wind and the rain. Perhaps she would come to live in it, there, with him.

Here is a season Hamnet has not known or touched. Here is a world moving on without him.

Her father is dead. . . . Now she must never mention his name again. No one will ever mention his name. She must try not to think about him. He is dead.

Skylar?" Dr. Nagash's expression, honed by years of delivering bad news, turned grave. "Skylar was in the accident, too. He was injured severely." "Is he here?" Tessa asked, her voice faint and hoarse. "In the… hospital?" "Tessa, he didn't make it to the hospital. Skylar died at the scene of the accident. I'm terribly sorry.

Las lluvias de noviembre habrán corrompido las flores de mi tumba, las habrá quemado junio y mi alma seguirá llorando siempre de impaciencia.

They buried him, but all through the night of mourning, in the lighted windows, his books arranged three by three kept watch like angels with outspread wings and seemed for him who was no more; the symbol of his resurrection

For every death is a simplification of existence for the others, removes the necessity to show gratitude, the obligation to pay visits.

And then, abruptly, the memory of his dead wife returned to him, and probably thinking it too complicated to inquire into how, at such a time, he could have allowed himself to be carried away by an impulse of happiness, he confined himself to a gesture which he habitually employed whenever any perplexing question came into his mind: that is, he passed his hand across his forehead, dried his eyes, and wiped his glasses. And he