Quotes About Pain

I admit that I may have been lonely. I know that loneliness can produce bolts of hot pain, a pain which, if it stays hot enough for long enough, can begin to simulate, or to provoke -- take your pick -- an apprehension of the divine. (This ought to arouse our suspicions.)

I am not yet sure how to sever the love from the lover without occasioning some degree of carnage.

It often happens that we treat pain as if it were the only real thing, or at least the most real thing: when it comes round, everything before it, around it, and, perhaps, in front of it, tends to seem fleeting, delusional.

One thing they don't tell you bout the blues when you got 'em, you keep on fallin' 'cause there ain't no bottom," sings Emmylou Harris, and she may be right. Perhaps it would help to be told that there is no bottom, save, as they say, wherever and whenever you stop digging.

For to wish to forget how much you loved someone - and then, to actually forget--can feel, at times, like the slaughter of a beautiful bird who chose, by nothing short of grace, to make a habitat of your heart. I have heard that this pain can be converted, as it were, by accepting "the fundamental impermanence of all things." This acceptance bewilders me: sometimes it seems an act of will; at others, of surrender. Often I feel myself to be rocking between them (seasickness).

Sitting in my office before teaching a class on prosody, trying not to think about you, about my having lost you. But how can it be? How can it be? Was I too blue for you. Was I too blue. I look down at my lecture notes: Heártbréak is a spondee. Then I lay my head down on the desk and start to weep.—Why doesn't this help?

He says again that he will not hurt her, she must not be scared, he will not hurt her, he will not, he promises, the words whispered in his new rasping voice. And then he hurts her anyway. The pain is startling, and curious in its specificity

And Agnes finds she can bear anything except her child's pain. She can bear separation, sickness, blows, birth, deprivation, hunger, unfairness, seclusion, but not this: her child, looking down at her dead twin. Her child, sobbing for her lost brother. Her child, racked with grief.

There is so much to do in an family this size, so much to see, so many people needing so many differnt things. How easy is it, Agnes thinks, as she lifts the plates, to miss the pain and anguish of one person, if that person keeps quiet, if he keeps it all in, like a bottle stoppered too tightly, the pressure inside building and building, until - what? Agnes doesn't know.

The sound that comes out of him is choked and smothered, like that of an animal forced to bears great weight. It is a noise of disbelief, of anguish. Anges will never forget it. At the end of her life, when her husband has been dead for years, she will still be able to summon its exact pitch and timbre.

He thinks of his grief over his sister as an entity that is horribly and painfully attached to him, the way a jellyfish might adhere to your skin or a goitre or an abscess. He pictures it as viscid, amorphous, spiked, hideous to behold. He finds it unbelievable that no one else can see it. Don't mind that, he would say, it's just my grief. Please ignore it and carry on with what you were saying.

thinks, as she lifts the plates, to miss the pain and anguish of one person, if that person keeps quiet, if he keeps it all in, like a bottle stoppered too tightly, the pressure inside building and building, until—what?

Descubre que es posible llorar todo el día y toda la noche. Que hay muchas formas de llorar: lágrimas que se derraman de repente, gemidos hondos y desgarrados, el interminable goteo silencioso de agua de los ojos.

Pero ¿y si sus palabras no fueran suficiente? ¿Y si ella no es remedio suficiente para su dolor sin nombre?

Anyone, Eliza is thinking, who describes dying as "slipping away" or "peaceful" has never witnessed it happen. Death is violent, death is a struggle.

She sees the cloud above him grow darker, gather its horrible rank strength. She wants to reach across the table then, to lay her hand on his arm. She wants to say, I am here. But what if her words are not enough? What if she is not enough of a salve for his nameless pain? For the first

She discovers that it is possible to cry all day and all night. That there are many different ways to cry: the sudden outpouring of tears, the deep, racking sobs, the soundless and endless leaking of water from the eyes.

am dead: Thou livest; …draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story —Hamlet, Act V, scene ii

I am dead: Thou livest; …draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story —Hamlet, Act V, scene ii

liniment, Chelsea ached more in the morning than she had the night before. She rolled carefully out of bed, sending a jealous glance toward Ethan. He'd slept the night through in

The days have taught you not to trust happiness because it hurts when it deceives.

She craved a family, not having had enough of one to understand what a pain in the ass it was.

Tener hambre y no poder comer es morir un poco cada minuto, cada segundo.

no mide las palabras y de vez en cuando se va de la lengua y deja caer palabras envenenadas que corren por las venas, como un cáncer maligno, hasta llegar al corazón y matarlo.