Quotes About Tears

For my part I have no joy in tears after dinnertime. There will always be a new dawn tomorrow. Yet I can have no objection to tears for any mortal who dies and goes to his destiny. And this is the only consolation we wretched mortals can give, to cut our hair and let the tears roll down our faces.

O my poor child. I bore you for sorrow, Nursed you for grief. Why? You should be Spending your time here by your ships Happily and untroubled by tears, Since life is short for you, all too brief. Now you're destined for both an early death And misery beyond compare. It was for this I gave birth to you in your father's palace Under an evil star.

They burst into cries, wailing, streaming live tears that gained us nothing —what good can come of grief?

my own grief is greatest of all, for you did not stretch forth your arms and embrace me as you lay dying, nor say to me any words that might have lived with me in my tears night and day forever more.

Those tears, that anger, cast into the past, deplete our moral energy for the present.

The conventional parabola--sentiment, the touch of the hand, the kiss, the passionate kiss, the feel of the body, the climax in the bed, then more bed, then less bed, then the boredom, the tears and the final bitterness--was to him shameful and hypocritical.

Tears of forlornness and self-pity welled out of his eyes.

That was the end of the integrity of their love. The succeeding days were a shambles of falseness and hypocrisy, mingled with her tears and moments of animal passion to which she abandoned herself with a greed made indecent by the hollowness of their days.

She turned her face into the pillow and let her tears drain into it, and felt that yet more was lost, when there was no witness to her sorrow.

The other day, Thomas reminded me of the famous Latin tag from Virgil's Aeneid. Sunt lacrimae rerum – there are tears in the nature of things.

I'll be an activist of the emotions, a loud, campaigning spirit fighting with tears and sighs to shape institutions around my vulnerable self. My identity will be my precious, my only true posession, my access to the only truth.

It is easy to bare your body, but it is difficult to bare your soul. What works for me is that I am not a city-raised boy with city-raised sensibilities. I can play the vulnerable tough man, the guy with a gun in his hand, tears in his eyes, fire in his heart, innocence in him, and in his arms a woman he loves.

I cry at absolutely anything. 'Lethal Weapon,' the fight scene at the end - you can see it on YouTube.

There isn't a single human being who hasn't plenty to cry over, and the trick is to make the laughs outweigh the tears.

All lives have triumphs and tragedies, laughter and tears, and mine has been no different.

Love is priceless. And all I really want is a good night kiss. So if tears were diamonds, more valuable gold, then a fortune in the corners of my eyes I would hold.

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to.

But we survived, and we're a good family. I just don't want to dedicate one more tear, or watch my mother cry one more time.

Behold, my friends, I am justice. And when at last we meet, you will not like it. And if irony awakens in you at the end, see me weep with these tears of jade, and answer with a smile. If you've the courage. Have you, my friends, the courage?

A small whimper escaped her throat, then she desperately pulled her eyes away.

The wagon rolled on, on its way to the mines. Harllo, who so loved the sun, was destined to wake in darkness, and mayhap he was never again to see the day's blessed light.  Out on the lake the water glittered with golden tears. As if the sun might relinquish its hard glare and, for just this one moment, weep for the fate of a child.

The Tiste Edur studied the bonecaster for a long moment, as the tears ran down his gaunt cheeks. 'I weep, Monok Ochem, because he cannot.' The bonecaster faced Onrack once more. 'Broken one, there are a lot of things you deserve ... but this mortal is not among them

The last of the night's tears churned down gunnels and swirled along street gutters. Muddy puddles filled potholes, reflecting

We are artists. We are writers—slightly neurotic and probably addicted to coffee, late nights, sunsets, laughter, tears, and heartache. Creativity is our drug. We lose ourselves in the smell of old books. We're bewildered by how we can live in a world this full of glory and grief and not be awestruck every moment. And we write stories to help wake people up before they fall asleep for good.