Quotes About Pain

Her grip bit into his arm.

It's rare you'll find a mage with a pleasant past

Pain lanced through her thighs.

To live a hard life was to make solid and impregnable every way in, until no openings remained and the soul hid in darkness, and no one else could hear its screams, its railing at injustice, its long, agonizing stretches of sadness. Hardness without created hardness within.

There's nothing usual about killing and dying, about pain and terror.

your scars burn bright on your soul

Is there a difference between spilled blood and blood squeezed out slowly, excruciatingly, over the course of a foreshortened lifetime of stress, misery, anguish and despair – all in the name of some amorphous god that no-one dares call holy? Even as they bend knee and repeat the litany of sacred duty?

There was value in pain, if only to remind oneself that one still lived

To carry a child is to age in one's bones. To weary one's blood. To stretch skin and flesh. Birthing splits a woman in two, the division a thing of raw agony. Splitting young from old. And the child needs, and the mother gives.

The easiest thing to break is a man's heart ...

world beat upon a soul until bones bent and hearts broke.

Pain was not a pleasant thing to live with, not day after day, night upon night, not with every damned breath.

And Karsa Orlong did not press, revealing his clear understanding that a soul could bleed from unseen places and often all that kept a mortal going depended on avoiding such places.

Sensitivity is a pervasive kind of vulnerability, after all. Makes you easy to hurt, makes the scars you carry liable to open and weep at the slightest prod.

Felisin Paran - she had no luck at all, and when good things showed up, rare as that was, well, she didn't know what to do or say. A person hurts enough inside, all they can do is hurt back.

She wept for the man she had abandoned, fleeing the pain she had seen in his eyes, as his love for her kept him stumbling in her wake, matching each footfall yet unable to come any closer. For that she could not allow. The intricate patterns on a hooded snake held mesmerizing charms, but the bite was no less deadly for that. She was the same. There was nothing in her – nothing that she could see – worth the overwhelming gift of love. Nothing in her worthy of him.

The historian rode out into the battlefield, almost desperate to rejoin the army. It was not a time to be alone, in the heart of slaughter, where every piece of wreckage or burned and torn flesh seemed to cry out silent outrage. Sites of battle held on to a madness, as if the blood that had soaked into the soil remembered pain and terror and held locked within it the echoes of screams and death cries.

The soul knows no greater anguish than to take a breath that begins with love and ends with grief.

He thinks of Mrs. Ristovski. He doesn't know what made her the way she is, but something has killed her, he can see now that she is a ghost as well. She has been a ghost for a long time. And to be a ghost while you're still alive is the worst thing he can imagine.

Misery isn't a bloody competition. Joe

In a cruel irony, both Newton and Leibniz, the pioneers of calculus, died in excruciating pain while suffering from calculi—a bladder stone for Newton, a kidney stone for Leibniz.

a cruel irony, both Newton and Leibniz, the pioneers of calculus, died in excruciating pain while suffering from calculi—a bladder stone for Newton, a kidney stone for Leibniz.

None of us can know what it's like for someone else. It's what makes us individuals. We each have our own pain, our own mistakes. But we can reach out toward each other, help each other. That's what makes us human.

It's deeply disturbing to think about how many people in the world are dying inside, screaming for someone, anyone, to care, reaching out again and again, sometimes to the hand that slaps them, because, all too often, without that hand they have nothing at all.