Quotes About Pain

We do not believe in heaven or hell...; we do not believe in eternal damnation. We believe only in the unavoidable horror of hurting others and of likewise being hurt.

If you lie to yourself about your own pain, you will be killed by those who will claim you enjoyed it.

My heart hurt so much I can't believe it. How can it keep beating, feeling like this?

You think you can avoid [pain,] but you actually can't. If you do, you just get sicker, or you feel more pain. But if you can speak it, if you can write it, if you can paint it, it is very healing.

She sicker than my mama was when she die. But she more evil than my mama and that keep her alive.

When I no longer have your heart I will not request your body your presence or even your polite conversation. I will go away to a far country separated from you by the sea — on which I cannot walk — and refrain even from sending letters describing my pain.

No one escapes a time in life when the arrow of sorrow, of anger, of despair pierces the heart. For many of us, there is the inevitable need to circle the wound. It is often such a surprise to find it there, in us, when we had assumed arrows so painful only landed in the hearts of other people. Some of us spend decades screaming at the archer. Or at least for longer periods than are good for us. How to take the arrow out of the heart? How to learn to relieve our own pain? That is the question.

Healing begins where the wound was made.

My heart hurt so much I can't believe it. How can it keep beating, feeling like this? But I'm a woman. I love you, I say. Whatever happen, whatever you do, I love you.

He love looking at Shug. I love looking at Shug. But Shug don't love looking at but one of us. Him. But that the way it spose to be. I know that. But if that so, why my heart hurt me so?

That though the heart is breaking, happiness can exist in a moment, also.

There is for human beings no greater hell to fear than the one on earth.

Who is it that most needs forgiving? Who is it that feels so much pain? Who is it that would really like to fly Far far away? Who is that can return Free and gentle Like the rain? It is the Self, my love, My adored one, It is the Self That even now It is running for its Life Running to its life Into the arms Of death.

The grace with which we embrace life, in spite of the pain, the sorrows, is always a measure of what has gone before

Trying to believe his story kilt her.

my friend comes. And cramps and aches and pains—but I must still keep going as if nothing is happening, or be an embarrassment

It does not matter to me: wherever you are grieving whether Paris, Damascus, Jerusalem, Bamako, Mexico or Beirut or New York City my heart, too, is bruised and dragging. There used to be such a thing as melodrama when feelings could be made up, but now there is bare pain and sorrow, a sense of endlessly missed opportunities to smile and embrace The other.

Thought so sharp it go through me like a pain. Somebody to run to. It seem too sweet to bear.

Artists, he now understood, were simply messengers. On them fell the responsibility for uniting the world. An awesome task, but he felt up to it, in his own life. His faith must be that the pain he brought to others and to himself—so poorly concealed in the information delivered—would lead not to destruction, but to transformation

Carlotta had not dreamed her numbed heart could be broken still more, or that breaking the heart opens it.

Pain had driven them to spectate from their very selves.

Thought so sharp it go through e like a pain. Somebody to run to. It seem too sweet to bear.

For instance: scorpions, vipers, and yellow jackets in paradise? How to accept gracefully the part of GOD that stings!

He beat me when you not here, I say.