Quotes About Pain

When someone stabs you it's not your fault that you feel pain.

The terror of falling asleep knowing that on waking she'd relive the loss, like Prometheus bound and tormented each day. Everything had changed. Even her grammar. Suddenly she lived in the past tense. And the singular.

Be careful. You're making hurting a habit. Spreading it around won't lessen your pain, you know. Just the opposite.

the pain of neuralgia…she knew what they thought. That she was cold. Couldn't feel. But in fact she felt too much. Too deeply.

There was nothing like the pain of the present to cure the pain of the past.

Good hearts get hurt. Good hearts get broken, Armand. And then they lash out.

transferring her hunger to eat into a hunger to hurt. He didn't turn round. She knew she should let it go, but it was too late. She'd chewed the insult over, torn it apart and swallowed it. The insult was part of her now.

She painted what appeared to be portraits, but that was only on the surface. The beautifully rendered flesh stretched, and sometimes sagged, over wounds, over celebrations. Over chasms of loss and rushes of joy. She painted peace and despair. All in one portrait. With brush and canvas and oils, Clara both captured and freed her subject.

Maybe this was now normal for Olivier. Maybe every now and then he simply wept. Not in pain or sadness. The tears were just overwhelming memories, rendered into water, seeping out.

She did believe in God. And she believed that Jane was with him. And suddenly her pain and grief became human and natural. And survivable. She had a place to put it, a place where Jane was with God. It was such a relief. She looked

Anyone so damaged as to cause this much harm led a life full of secrets and full of enemies.

struck. Once. And into that blow he put his childhood, his grief, his loss. He put his mother's sorrow and his sister's longing. The menorah, weighed down with that, crushed the Hermit's skull.

Hurt feelings," said Lacoste. "I'd rather have a bruise any day.

though her legs had given way. Loss was like that, Gamache knew. You didn't just lose a loved one. You lost your heart, your memories, your laughter, your brain and it even took your bones. Eventually it all came back,

Who hurt you once / so far beyond repair / that you would greet each overture / with curling lip? It

Clara knew that grief took a terrible toll. It was paid at every birthday, every holiday, each Christmas. It was paid when glimpsing the familiar handwriting, or a hat, or a balled-up sock. Or hearing a creak that could have been, should have been, a footstep. Grief took its toll each morning, each evening, every noon hour as those who were left behind struggled forward.

Myrna understood how damaging it was to compare pain. To dismiss hurt just because it wasn't the worst.

Who hurt you once, so far beyond repair / that you would greet each overture with curling lip? The lines from Ruth Zardo's poem exploded in his head. In his chest. Me, he realized with horror. I did.

They'd crossed over to that continent where grieving parents lived. It looked the same as the rest of the world, but wasn't. Colors bled pale. Music was just notes. Books no longer transported or comforted, not fully. Never again. Food was nutrition, little more. Breaths were sighs.

That's why I made the muffins from rose water, as a homage to Jane. Then I ate them, as you saw. I always eat my pain.' Gabri smiled slightly. Looking at the size of the man, Gamache marveled at the amount of pain he must have.

Why were there no words that felt? Words that when you touched them you'd feel what was intended? The chasm left by the loss of Madeleine? The lump in the throat that fizzed and ached. The terror of falling asleep knowing that on waking she'd relive the loss, like Prometheus bound and tormented each day. Everything had changed. Even her grammar. Suddenly she lived in the past tense. And the singular.

Clara rocked back and forth, back and forth, cradling her loss. Earlier in the day she'd felt someone had scooped her heart and her brain right out of her body. Now they were back, but they were broken. Her brain jumped madly about the place, but always back to that one scorched spot.

But she went from being a happy, carefree child to an embittered woman. Very solitary, not very likeable apparently. Then, near the end of her life, she wrote to a friend. In the letter she said that her father had said something to her. Something horrible and unforgivable." "The brutal telling.

eventually that pain turned to bitterness, and the bitterness turned to anger, and the anger became rage. Until that rage became madness.