Quotes About Pain

The men of old times had little sense;/If you called them fools you wouldn't be far wrong./They invented songs, and all the sweetness of music,/To perform at feasts, banquets, and celebrations;/But no one thought of using/Songs and stringed instruments/To banish the bitterness and pain of life.

I shall weep for you—not just one year but as long as life shall last. Yes, my love, forever. And I'll hate her who gave me birth, and curse my father. Their love was only words; but you, you gave me the most precious thing you had, to save my life. The loss—the loss of one like you— how can I not cry out in pain?

Would it ever, ever leave? I had become used to the ache now; it was with me all the time, and never seemed to lessen. Time was no healer, I decided, but it was a great accommodator.

The majority of people I've come across in life have treated me unfairly. I'd be a liar if I said it didn't hurt; I have this deep wound in my soul I feel all the time, but I still choose to love despite my moments of anger and selfishness. Love is the only true, everlasting thing we all live for and who am I to rob someone of experiencing that?

to speak of them out loud, to speak of their hunger and pain and loneliness and humour, to make them visible so that can not be ravaged in the dark without great consequence.

You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people.

Her heart was broken perhaps, but it was a small inexpensive organ of local manufacture. In a wider and grander way she felt things had been simplified.

Tead, kui ma vaatan seda oma suurt kinniseotud jalga, siis ma ei saa lahti tundest, et mul on podagra, ja see tekitab hirmsat ?šampuseisu.

A blow, expected, repeated, falling upon a bruise with no smart or shock of surprise, only a dull and sickening pain and the doubt whether another like it could be borne.

I aches," said Mrs. Jackson with simple dignity. "I aches terrible all round the sit-upon. It's the damp.

Life is so damned hard, so damned hard... It just hurts people and hurts people, until finally it hurts them so that they can't be hurt ever any more. That's the last and worst thing it does.

One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual. There are open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a pin-prick but wounds still. The marks of suffering are more comparable to the loss of a finger, or of the sight of an eye. We may not miss them, either, for one minute in a year, but if we should there is nothing to be done about it.

So he tasted the deep pain that is reserved only for the strong, just as he had tasted for a little while the deep happiness.

Sometimes it is harder to deprive oneself of a pain than of a pleasure and the memory so possessed him that for the moment there was nothing to do but to pretend.

There are open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a pin-prick but wounds still.

If he had to bring all the bitterness and hatred of the world into his heart, he was not going to be in love with her again.

Happiness, remarked Maury Noble one day, is only the first hour after the alleviation of some especially intense misery.

He loved her, and he would love her until the day he was too old for loving--but he could not have her. So he tasted the deep pain that is reserved only for the strong, just as he had tasted for a little while the deep happiness.

The mouth was wide open and ripped at the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous vitality she had stored so long.

When you're older you'll know what people who love suffer. The agony. It's better to be cold and young than to love.

Dear little Dot, life is so damned hard. She was crying upon his shoulder. So damned hard, so damned hard, he repeated aimlessly; it just hurts people and hurts people, until finally it hurts them so that they can't be hurt ever any more. That's the last and worst thing it does.

There had been something in the details he had chosen to describe that made her cry herself asleep that night, for the kitten, for Anthony for herself, for the pain and bitterness and cruelty of all the world.

But it seemed to him that there should be a difference in his attitude. All the distress that he had ever known, the sorrow and the pain, had been because of women. It was something that in different ways they did to him, unconsciously, almost casually—perhaps finding him tender-minded and afraid, they killed the things in him that menaced their absolute sway.

Only the image of a third person, even a vanished one, entering into his relation with Rosemary was needed to throw him off his balance and send through him waves of pain, misery, desire, desperation. The vividly pictured hand on Rosemary's cheek, the quicker breath, the white excitement of the event viewed from outside, the inviolable secret wamrth within.