Quotes About Pain

shoulder blades like broken wings.

So many things I had thought forgotten Return to my mind with stranger pain: Like letters that arrive addressed to someone Who left the house so many years ago. from "Why Did I Dream of You Last Night?

Just sort of relax your mind and say yes, it does hurt, I know. Don't try and shut it out.

such a strange tormenting feeling when your dæmon was pulling at the link between you; part physical pain deep in the chest, part intense sadness and love. And she knew it was the same for him. Everyone tested it when they were growing up: seeing how far they could pull apart, coming back with intense relief.

Behind them lay pain and death and fear; ahead of them lay doubt, and danger, and fathomless mysteries.

I have suffered enough." "Oh, there is more suffering to come. We have a thousand years of experience in this Church of ours. We can draw out your suffering endlessly. Tell us about the child," Mrs. Coulter said, and reached down to break one of the witch's fingers. It snapped easily.

He had to stay close to the ship, of course, for he could never go far from her; but she sensed his desire to speed as far and as fast as he could, for pure exhilaration. She shared his pleasure, but for her it wasn't simple pleasure, for there was pain and fear in it too. Suppose he loved being a dolphin more than he loved being with her on land? What would she do then? Her

El trabajo sin alegría es ruin; el trabajo sin dolor es ruin; el dolor sin trabajo es ruin; la alegría sin trabajo es ruin. John Ruskin

I can't bear the thought of oblivion, Asriel," she continued. "Sooner anything than that. I used to think pain would be worse—to be tortured forever—I thought that must be worse . . . But as long as you were conscious, it would be better, wouldn't it? Better than feeling nothing, just going into the dark, everything going out forever and ever?

Detrás de ellos había dolor, muerte, miedo; delante estaba el peligro, insondables misterios. Pero no estaban solos.

There's others who longed to be dead when they were alive, poor souls; lives full of pain or misery; killed themselves for a chance of a blessed rest, and found that nothing had changed except for the worse, and this time there was no escape; you can't make yourself alive again.

nothing. "I can't bear the thought of oblivion, Asriel," she continued. "Sooner anything than that. I used to think pain would be worse—to be tortured forever—I thought that must be worse Ã¢â'¬Â¦ But as long as you were conscious, it would be better, wouldn't it? Better than feeling nothing, just going into the dark, everything going out forever and ever?

we take for lovers or husbands. You are so young, Lyra, too young to understand this, but I shall tell you anyway and you'll understand it later: men pass in front of our eyes like butterflies, creatures of a brief season. We love them; they are brave, proud, beautiful, clever; and they die almost at once. They die so soon that our hearts are continually racked with pain.

was such a strange tormenting feeling when your dæmon was pulling at the link between you; part physical pain deep in the chest, part intense sadness and love. And she knew it was the same for him. Everyone tested it when they were growing up: seeing how far they could pull apart, coming back with intense relief.

I can't bear the thought of oblivion, Asriel, she continued. Sooner anything than that. I used to think pain would be worse – to be tortured for ever – I thought that must be worse... But as long as you were conscious, it would be better, wouldn't it? Better than feeling nothing, just going into the dark, everything going out for ever and ever?

Just sort of relax your mind and say yes, it does hurt, I know.

Just sort of relax your mind and say yes, it does hurt, I know. Don't try and shut it out.

Men we have never met took our son. They took him without our express permission. They tortured him then they … killed him. And there is no understanding it. There is no meaning. No coming to terms with it. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. We will wake up every day for the rest of our lives and we will breathe razor blades and we will swim through bleach. And there is no escape from this. There is no comfort. There is just … blades and bleach. Until we die.

And he couldn't do it. He could not fucking die. How could he leave? How could he go? Everything he hated was here.

There is something fascinating about what moral suffering can do to someone who is in no obvious way a weak or feeble person. It's more insidious even than what physical illness can do, because there is no morphine drip or spinal block or radical surgery to alleviate it. Once you're in its grip, it's as though it will have to kill you for you to be free of it. Its raw realism is like nothing else.

We are immoderate because grief is immoderate, all the hundreds and thousands of kinds of grief.

It's amazing how much punishment we can take.

Pensando na morte de seu irmão - e no ataque mortal do pai - me peguei comparando aquele sorriso seu com um curativo sobre uma ferida. (p.75)

Exhibitionismul inerent unei marturisiri nu face decat sa agraveze suferinta.