Quotes About Loss

Yank was a good man who lived a good life. He never did anything wrong. He died before his time, while I was still in jail. They wouldn't let me come home on a pass for his funeral. Not even for my brother's or sister's funerals. Yank managed O'Malley's Restaurant on the West Chester Pike, and he wrote me in jail that he was going to throw a great big welcome home party for me when I got out, but poor Yank got a heart attack and it killed him.)

I got a little carried away one day and sold my entire load of meat on my way to a delivery in Atlantic City. I put the seal on my lock after the whole load of meat was transferred to the guy. When I got to Atlantic City the seal was broken by the manager and there was no meat inside and I was mystified.

Russell had lost the thumb and index finger on his left hand when he was young. He moved the thumb he still had around like he was grinding something into the white tablecloth and said, "Dust to dust." I

But now, severed from the companion of my infancy, the partaker of all my thoughts, my cares, and my wishes, I was like one set afloat upon a stormy sea, hanging his safety upon a plank; night was closing upon him, and an unexpected surge had torn him from his hold and overwhelmed him forever.

Fallen from his lofty and heroic station; now finally restored to the perception of truth; weighed to earth by the recollection of his own deeds; consoled no longer by a consciousness of rectitude, for the loss of offspring and wife a loss for which he was indebted to his own misguided hand; Wieland was transformed at once into the man of sorrow?

I sought not in her visage, for the tinge of the morning, and the lustre of heaven. These had vanished with life; but I hoped for liberty to print a last kiss upon her lips. This was denied me; for such had been the merciless blow that destroyed her, that not a lineament remained!

You'll never understand the true sense of freedom – until you lose it.

Voltaire, Locke, Rousseau, and Hobbes never had a chance to speak with these men or even know of their existence—and here, at last, we begin to appreciate the enormity of the calamity, for the distintegration of native America was a loss not just to those societies but to the human enterprise as a whole.

Cultures are like books, the anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss once remarked, each a volume in the great library of humankind. In the sixteenth century, more books were burned than ever before or since. How many Homers vanished? How many Hesiods? What great works of painting, sculpture, architecture, and music vanished or never were created? Languages, prayers, dreams, habits, and hopes—all gone.

War is a game in which princes seldom win, the people never

True friendship is like sound health, the value of it is seldom known until it be lost.

After the onslaught of loss, both personal and historical, do we really believe a good lunch and an aesthetic perception settles the matter?

Behind anger, is hidden the cemetery. (Derrière la colère, - Se cache le cimetière.)

Death is the word that kills all the words.

Death is the word that kills all the words. (La mort est un mot - Qui tue tous les mots)

Joseph lost his son and Christ. (Joseph a perdu - Son fils et Jésus.)

No statue for the vanquished. (Pas de statue Pour les vaincus)

The memory of the dead is indeed a good remorse.

The memory of the dead is indeed a good remorse. (Le souvenir des morts - Est bien un bon remords)

War limits the deads. It limits them to the cimetery ... (La guerre limite les morts. - Les limite au cimetière...)

We don't build the ruins. Our soul is in hate. (On ne construit des ruines. - Notre âme est dans la haine.)

We call them faerie. We don't believe in them. Our loss.

A nation may lose its liberties in a day and not miss them in a century.

As soon as man enters into a state of society he loses the sense of his weakness equality ceases, and then commences the state of war.