Quotes About Loss

But there was no way to slice it that did not feel like a loss. He would simply have to file it away with all the other things—both small and large—that should not have been asking too much from life, but which life had taken from him all the same.

That gold star in the window. The symbol for a lost son. It broke you down.

Life gives us nothing outright. It only lends. Nothing is ours to keep. Absolutely nothing. Not even our bodies, our brains. This 'self' that we think we know so well, that we think of as us. It is only on loan. If a person comes into our life, they will go again. In a parting of ways, or because everyone dies. They will die or you will die. Nothing we receive in this life are we allowed to keep.

Over a hundred and twenty Leors had lost their lives, and at least a hundred more had been wounded.

I do not tolerate a world emptied of you. I have tried. For a year I have called every black tree Marya Morevna; I have looked for your face in the patterns of the ice. In the dark, I have pored over the loss of you like pale gold.

I will not let her speak because I love her, and when you love someone, you do not make them tell war stories. A war story is a black space. On the one side is before and on the other side is after, and what is inside belongs only to the dead.

You will always go into that tent. You will see her scar and wonder where she got it. You will always be amazed at how one woman can have so much black hair. You will always fall in love, and it will always be like having your throat cut, just that fast. You will always run away with her. You will always lose her. You will always be a fool. You will always be dead, in a city of ice, snow falling into your ear. You have already done all of this and will do it again.

Readers will always insist on adventures, and though you can have grief without adventures, you cannot have adventures without grief.

That's what happens to friends, eventually. They leave you. It's practically what they're for.

September had never been betrayed before. She did not even know what to call the feeling in her chest, so bitter and sour. Poor child. There is always a first time, and it is never the last time.

In the space of one heartbeat to another I loved you and I was lost to you

She is dead. Almost certainly dead. Nearly conclusively dead. She is, at the very least, not answering her telephone.

Do you know, Masha, how revelation comes? Like death. So sudden, though you knew all along it must occur. A revelation is always the end of something. It might even be cause for grief.

No one is now what they were before the war. There's just no getting any of it back.

You know how we can be about things which sparkle and shine. We imagine they will put back something of what has been lost.

I ate all of my husbands. First I ate their love, then their will, then their despair, and then I made pies of their bodies - and those bodies were so dear to me!

When you've lost your girl, it doesn't much matter where you live. Everywhere is just The Place She Isn't, and that's the front and back of it.

If he lost everything else, pride, priapism, and producer credit, Decibel Jones would never, never give up his swagger.

I still think of myself as a house. Ravan tried to fix this problem of self-image, as he called it. To teach me to phrase my communication in terms of a human body. To say: let us hold hands instead of let us hold kitchens. To say put our heads together and not put our parlors together. But it is not as simple as replacing words anymore. Ravan is gone. My hearth is broken.

I cannot help that readers will always insist on adventures, and though you can have grief without adventures, you cannot have adventures without grief.

Things that begin and end in grief: marriage, harvest, childbirth. Journeys away from home. Journeys toward home. Surgeries. Love. Weeping.

You can never forget what you do in a war, September my love. No one can. You won't forget your war either.

All time is mean young man. It takes and does not give, it rushes when you wish it would linger and drags when you wish is would fly. It flows sullenly, only in one direction, when it might take a thousand turns. You cannot get anything back once time has taken it. Time cheats and steals and lies and kills. If anyone could arrest it, they would have time behind bars faster than you can check your watch.

What happens to anything beautiful? Viy ate it up.