Quotes About Pain

1) - E' uno strano dolore. Piano. - Morire di nostalgia per qualcosa che non vivrai mai.

per capire cosa vuol dire che la verità si concede solo all'orrore, e che per raggiungerla abbiamo dovuto passare da questo inferno, per vederla abbiamo dovuto distruggerci l'un l'altro, per averla abbiamo dovuto diventare belve feroci, per stanarla abbiamo dovuto spezzarci di dolore. E per essere veri abbiamo dovuto morire. Perché? Perché le cose diventano vere solo nella morsa della disperazione?

Uno tiene sus sueños, cosas suyas, íntimas, y después la vida no quiere seguir jugando contigo, y te lo desmonta, un instante, una frase, y todo se desvanece. Suele ocurrir. Por esta razón y no por otra vivir es una tarea dolorosa.

See on kummaline valu. Surra igatsusest millegi järele, mida sul kunagi ei õnnestunud läbi elada.

It hurts too much so I don't want to talk about it.

Good Heaven! That is enough to drive away all my pains; I could mount him with thirty balls in my body. On my soul, handsome stirrups!

Death is always death, that is oblivion, resting, absence of life, as well as pain.

That, said Isabel, is the most painful feature of lost love. you wonder what the other person is doing. Right at this moment. What is he/she doing?

You say that you lost your child. You know how I feel then. You know that, don't you? It's a sadness that never goes away.

Telling a person with toothache that there are others with greater toothache than their own was no help at all.

People talk of the wrench of parting, and that, he felt, was exactly what it was. Take a metal object off a magnet and one would experience that - there was the draw, the tug, the flow of the bond even through the air, and then the sudden detaching as separation occurred. That was what it was like. That was human parting. You felt it; you felt the separation, just as you would feel the rending of tissue being pulled apart.

That was what counted, she told herself: those unexpected moments of appreciation, unanticipated glimpses of beauty or kindness - any of the things that attached us to this world, that made us forget, even for a moment, its pain and its transience.

Anger, Obed Ramotswe had explained to her once, is no more than a salt that we rub into our wounds.

Everybody who consulted her was, in their way, hurting--even this rich man with his big Mercedes-Benz and his expensive cuff-links. Human hurt was like lightning; it did not choose its targets, but struck, with rough equality and little regard to position, achievement, or moral desert.

People caused harm to others because they were of malevolent disposition, that was shear human wickedness. something that has always existed and always would.Some people it seemed derived pleasure from inflicting suffering on others...

did it make a difference if the remark never got back to the person about whom it was made? She thought not. The harm is done when the words are uttered: that is the act of belittlement, the act of diminishing the other, and it is that act which would cause pain to the victim. You said that about me? The wrong was located in the making of the cruel remark, rather than in the pain it might later cause.

All that I know is that he is sad in his heart...that is the place where his sadness is. Right there. And I do not think that is ever very easy to deal with sadness in that part of the body.

the world was a vale of tears—it always had been.

There were so many lives, she thought, that could only be led with difficulty, with pain, and because we were so bound up in our own lives, so many of these were invisible to us until suddenly we saw, and knew, and felt that sudden pang of human sympathy that comes with knowing.

How do you calibrate pain?" asked Jamie. "By cutting out the background pain of the world," answered Isabel. "By cutting all that out, not registering it, and responding only to those painful things that we can do something about. Because otherwise Ã¢â'¬Â¦

For that was a very special sort of love, she realised—love given back to one who loved you; that love was like the first rain, the longed-for rain, which washed away the pain and sadness of the world so that you forgot that those things had ever been there.

Eddie let out a whistle. "You really got rid of that old bag." "Please don't call her that." "But that's what she is," said Eddie. "She complained to me about the Parmesan the other day. She more or less accused me of substituting grana. She's a real pain. Big-time.

It occurred to Mma Ramotswe that such behaviour was no more than ignorance; an inability to understand the hopes and aspirations of others. That understanding, thought Mma Ramotswe, was the beginning of all morality. If you knew how a person was feeling, if you could imagine yourself in her position, then surely it would be impossible to inflict further pain. Inflicting pain in such circumstances would be like hurting oneself.

That at least was a consolation: separation and loss were something that we all experienced; the pain was shared, and was perhaps easier for that.