Quotes About Loss

Most of the boys Lanny had played with here, slightly older than himself, had died in Flanders. The sons they had left behind had died in the recent war; but the breed went on—generation after generation born, raised, educated at great expense and trouble, only to be slaughtered on some foreign field.

They had opened their hearts, like flowers to the springtime, and the merciless winter had fallen upon them. They wondered if ever any love that had blossomed had been so crushed and trampled!

doing many more things until it seemed that ritual had replaced grief.

We all make mistakes, Carol. Sometimes they're more expensive than others. But I don't deserve to lose you,' he said, spreading his hands in appeal.

Nothing consoles you for the loss of someone you love. You absorb it into you. You move forward but you move in a different way.' She

Gesualdo's Tenebrae Responsories for his son to upload to his iPod and listen to on the day of his burial.

for did it not mean I was losing my darling, just when I had secretly made her mine?

The Grinbergs drew upon Melanie Klein's psychoanalytic theories40 and showed how guilt over loss of parts of the self—that is, the immigrant or the refugee's previous identity and his or her investment in the land and people left behind—may complicate the newcomer's mourning process

Thus, just as we must mourn the passing of those we love, so too do we need to mourn when intimately hated persons or things are lost, although we usually try to deny this.

If the child's image of a dead father created only or mostly in fantasy is idealized—dead soldiers are usually idealized as heroes—the mourning over losing them (their fantasized images) becomes more difficult. There is psychological resistance to giving up a hero constructed in one's mind and making him an average dead man.

A wife, he knew, was a huge armful of responsibility, and responsibility was the disease in man. But he was lonely, and twice as lonely after leaving the woman by the graves.

How utterly death separated the lover from the things he loved! Here by the cabin door he kicked the snow away, and sitting where she had fallen, he played a few of the melodies he had played during those few immortal weeks when they were man and wife.

Le poète se mourait depuis si longtemps qu'il avait cessé de comprendre que c'était la mort. Parfois, une idée simple et forte se frayait un chemin à travers son cerveau, douloureuse et presque palpable : qu'on lui avait volé le pain qu'il avait mis sous sa tête.

He had lived without her before. He could get over it! In a year or so he'd be able to walk straight past her without his heart so much as missing a beat. He needed her as much as a drunk needs a cork! But he understood all too quickly how vain these thoughts were. How can you tear something out of your heart? Your heart isn't made out of paper and your life isn't written down in ink. You can't erase the imprint of years.

Everyone feels guilty before a mother who has lost her son in a war; throughout human history men have tried in vain to justify themselves.

They soon lost interest in Sofya. She was just one more prisoner -with no more idea of her destination than anyone else. No one asked her name and patronymic; no one remembered her surname. She realized with surprise that although the process of evolution had taken millions of years, these people had needed only a few days to revert to the state of cattle, dirty and unhappy, captive and nameless.

What does a woman who has lost her children care about a philosopher's definitions of good and evil? But what if life itself is evil?

There was something terrible, but also something sad and melancholy in this long cry uttered by the Russian infantry as they staged an attack. As it crossed the cold water, it lost its fervour. Instead of valour or gallantry, you could hear the sadness of a soul parting with everything that it loved, calling on its nearest and dearest to wake up, to lift their head from their pillows and hear for the last time the voice of a father, a husband, a son or a brother...

Instead of valour or gallantry, you could hear the sadness of a soul parting with everything that it loved, calling on its nearest and dearest to wake up, to lift their heads from their pillows and hear for the last time the voice of a father, a husband, a son or a brother . . .

They were weeping not because a young man was marrying and leaving his mother but because of the incalculable loss and suffering that Armenians have endured, because they couldn't not weep for relatives of theirs who had perished during the massacres of 1915, because no joy in the world could make them forget their nation's grief and their homeland on the other side of Mount Ararat.

Several times a day Viktor passed his hand over his chest, over the jacket pocket where he kept it. Once, when the pain seemed unbearable, he thought, "If I hide it away somewhere, I might slowly start to calm down. As things are, this letter's like an open grave." But he knew that he would sooner destroy himself than part with this letter that had, by some miracle, managed to find its way to him.

L'anima passa attraverso mille tormenti, costruisce per anni, a volte per decenni, pietra dopo pietra, il suo tumulo, prima di arrivare ad ammettere una perdita eterna, prima di rassegnarsi all'evidenza.

My darling, my dying, my light, my sight, my night my whole day long.

The life is cruel death to me without you.