Quotes About Pain

You would've thought the more pain you suffered, the more you'd get used to it, but it was the other way around.

Glokta felt his hand bunching into a fist on the parapet. 'We must make the Gurkish pay for every stride of ground.' We must make them pay for my ruined leg. 'For every inch of dirt.' For my missing teeth. 'For every meagre shack, and crumbling hut, and worthless stretch of dust.' For my weeping eye, and my twisted back, and my repulsive shadow of a life. He licked at his empty gums. 'Make them pay.

Why do I do it, when it always hurts me? Why must we test the pain? Tongue the ulcer, rub the blister, pick the scab?

look of fury, a look of pain, a look of hatred you can trust. A smile can hide anything.

Along with the constant pain was the constant need to pretend you weren't in pain at all, as though the worst thing about your agony was that it might put other people out.

Pardon me," said Glokta, wiping his running eye with a finger, "but I spent two years in the Emperor's prisons. I daresay, if I had known I'd be there half that long at the start, I would have made a more concerted effort to kill myself. Seven hundred days, give or take, in the darkness. As close to hell, I would have thought, as a living man can go. My point is this – if you mean to upset me, you'll need more than harsh language.

Guilt is a luxury reserved for those still breathing and with no unbearable pain, cold or hunger demanding all their fickle attention. Long as guilt's your biggest problem, girl..." Rikke saw the faint gleam of Isern's teeth in the gathering darkness. "Things can't be that bad".

I was too busy wallowing in pain and bitterness. Too busy being tragic.

Enough pain makes a coward of anyone.

Conscience can be painful but so can the cock-rot. A grown-up should suffer his afflictions privately and not allow them to become an inconvenience for friends and colleagues.' - The Magnificent Nicomo Cosca

She sat in silence as he limped out, teeth gritted. Click, tap, grunt. Click, tap, grunt. That mixture of cunning, ruthlessness, burning ambition and constant pain was far from unfamiliar. She had heard it said that every woman ends up marrying her father. Until that moment, she had always imagined herself the exception.

Vengeance is a way of clinging to what we have lost. A wedge in the Last Door, and through the crack we can still glimpse the faces of the dead. We strain towards it with all our being, break every rule to have it, but when we clutch it, there is nothing there. Only grief.

He flowed up to the first wall, slid one leg over it, silent as a mouse. He lifted himself up, smooth as butter, keeping quiet, keeping low. His back foot caught on a set of loose stones, dragged them scraping with him. He grabbed at them, fumbled them, knocked over even more with his elbow and they clattered down loud around him. He stumbled onto his weak ankle, twisted it, squawked with pain, fell over and rolled through a patch of thistles.

But then, you reach a certain age, everything hurts.

And here it is. That horrible, beautiful, stretched out moment between stubbing your toe and feeling the hurt. How long do I have before the pain comes? How bad will it be when it does? Gasping, slack-jawed at the foot of the steps, Glokta felt a tingling of anticipation. Here it comes… The

Oftentimes,' murmured Whirrun, 'a man's better served embracing his pain than trying to escape it. Things are smaller when you face 'em.

And here it is. That horrible, beautiful, stretched out moment between stubbing your toe and feeling the hurt. How long do I have before the pain comes? How bad will it be when it does?

Conscience can be painful but so can the cock-rot. A grown-up should suffer his afflictions privately and not allow them to become an inconvenience for friends and colleagues.' 'Conscience and the cock-rot are hardly equivalent,' snapped Lorsen. 'Indeed,' said Cosca, significantly. 'The cock-rot is rarely fatal.

Broken hearts heal with time, but broken teeth never do. Glokta

He flowed up to the first wall, slid one leg over it, silent as a mouse. He lifted himself up, smooth as butter, keeping quiet, keeping low. His back foot caught on a set of loose stones, dragged them scraping with him. He grabbed at them, fumbled them, knocked over even more with his elbow, and they clattered down loud around him. He stumbled onto his weak ankle, twisted it, squawked with pain, fell over, and rolled through a patch of thistles. "Shit," he grunted,

I don't do sober any more. Sober hurts.

El dolor es el mejor combustible para avivar un fuego.

An open mind is like to an open wound,' growled Glokta. 'Vulnerable to poison. Liable to fester. Apt to give its owner only pain.

This wasn't fantasies, it was life. And life had a habit of kicking her in the cunt. But