Quotes About Pain

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.

Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.

Many are poets, but without the name; For what is Poesy but to create From overfeeling Good or Ill; and aim At an external life beyond our fate, And be the new Prometheus of new men, Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late, Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, In vain our fate in sighs deplore; Remembrance only can remain, But that, will make us weep the more.

Il ricordo del piacere non è più piacere. Il ricordo del dolore è ancora dolore.

And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.

The truth never hurts — much.

Was ever grief like mine?

To die and part is a less evil; but to part and live, there, there is the torment.

What is the lost cry in the heart of the earth? I am wounded. I have taken a wound in my flesh. The lips of it will never come together. Fire has been thrust deep in the wound. My flesh is branded.

There is no comfort in the truth , pain is all you find.

In the face of pain there are no heroes.

I don't know what message to send to Bran. Help him Tyrion." "What help could I give him? I am no maester, to ease his pain. I have no spell to give him back his legs." "You gave me help when I needed it" Jon Snow said. "I gave you nothing," Tyrion said. "Words." "Then give your words to Bran too.

Some old wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word.

The things we love destroy us every time, lad. Remember that.

Of all the bright cruel lies they tell you, the cruelest is the one called love.

Was there ever a war where only one side bled?

If there are gods, why is the world so full of pain and injustice?' 'Because of men like you.

Shattered legs may heal in time, but some betrayals fester and poison the soul.

Only a man who's been burned knows what hell is truly like.

She went to the window seat and sat there, sniffling, hating them all, and herself most of all. It was all her fault, everything bad that had happened.

The old man laid a withered, spotted hand on his shoulder. "It hurts, boy," he said softly. "Oh, yes. Choosing . . . it has always hurt. And always will. I know.

When you have known the kiss of a flaying knife, a laugh loses all its power to hurt you.