Quotes About Sacrifice

A man in love has been known to do worse things, I suppose.

She must never look into his eyes, her own unmasked, and say, Choose me, Piers. Choose me!

Ah, what we do to destroy ourselves, Philippa thought. Yet so many of us do it.

She could never make him happy. She had nothing of her real self to offer him.

Allie. The woman he had loved in different ways for fourteen years. But always deeply. Always more deeply than he had loved anyone or anything else, including himself. Especially himself. Indeed, he was very close to hating himself at that moment.

She lived in a world which she could make perfect for those she loved and in which her own comfort and happiness mattered not at all.

The price of love, she thought, was pain. Was it worth it? Was it better not to love at all?

Well, I think it was a very romantic thing to do, anyway . . . And very brave, too. Not many ladies would have the courage to kill themselves for love. Most would prefer to pine away.

I will not knowingly empty my life of all meaning. Not just for pleasure. And not for you. It would be a poor exchange indeed.

She had given him all she had to give. She would not feel guilty for that.

And I wanted so much to be able to set the world at your feet. I never wanted anything but you, she almost whispered.

I wanted to be able to give her all of myself. I tried.

We're married. I will protect you. I will die for you. Better than that. I will live for you.

Show God what yer made of, man. Pucker up and kiss the cross.

She was alone and destitute in a world of pointless carnage. By an eight-hundred-year-old Sepahrdic tradition she ad been since the age of twelve and a half bogeret l'reshut nafsha--an adult wit authority over her own soul. The Torah taught, Choose life. And so, rather than die of pride, Sofia Mendes sold what she had to sell, and she survived.

Stability and order have always been paid for with captivity and blood. (76)

War smashes all our petty problems and sweeps the shards into one huge, patriotic pile.

Everything, even sweeping, scraping vegetables, weeding a garden and waiting on the sick could be a prayer, if it were offered to God.

There aren't any 'warriors' on a battlefield." Her scornful voice ran on, trembling, in rough Carthaginian, and she let it: "There's you and your buddy, and you and your mates, and you and your boss. A lance. The smallest unit on the field is eight or ten men. Nobody's a hero on their own. One man alone out there is dead meat.

God lends me His heart to love you with. I asked for it when I found my own was too small, and it really holds you, and leaves you room to grow.

it was dawning on me how uphill a poet's path was, and I confessed to her that if I had to be the choice between being happy or being a poet, I'd choose to be happy.

She holds every dress briefly by its shoulders like it's a schoolkid she's checking out for smudges before church. Then one by one they get flung away from her and into the fire.

That was when it happened, exactly then, the end of a phase, the mental click as the last strand of my private resistance gave way; when I admitted, looking down at his candid blue eyes: there's nothing I wouldn't do for you, absolutely nothing.

There are a hundred paths through the world that are easier than loving. But, who wants easier?