Quotes About Loss

Everybody he knew these days seemed to be making much more money with far less work than he had to get through before he saw a cheque. His inability to earn at an adequate rate had now been compounded by his loss of much of the family's capital in a card game. He wanted to work--highly paid, richly rewarded work. But most of all he wanted his £7,000 back.

If I could, I would stop the passage of time. But hour follows on hour, minute on minute, each second robbing me of a morsel of myself for the nothing of tomorrow. I shall never experience this moment again.

within two to three generations at least half the world's six thousand or so languages will have disappeared,

He opened his arms and she moved into the space they made in the world, and laying her head against his chest she permitted herself the almost unimaginable luxury of grief.

There was some sadness in how that could happen, Tai thought: falling out of love with something that had shaped you. Or even people who had? But if you didn't change at least a little, where were the passages of a life? Didn't learning, changing, sometimes mean letting go of what had once been seen as true?

Memory was talisman and ward for him, gateway and hearth. It was pride and love, shelter from loss: for if something could remembered, it was not wholly lost. Not dead and gone forever.

EVENTUALLY, MORNING CAME. Morning always comes. There are always losses in the night, a price paid for light.

Maybe home for some is always the one they lost.

And in the dark of that room, notorious for the woven patterns of desire it had seen, Ammar ibn Khairan held the woman beloved of the man he'd killed, and offered what small comfort he could. He granted her the courtesy and space of his silence, as she finally permitted herself to weep, mourning the depth of her loss, the appalling disappearance, in an instant, of love in a bitter world.

What broke her in the end was to see that Dari, moving quietly in the snow, was tracing his flower neatly with a thin branch in the growing dark while tears were pouring down his face without surcease.

If his mother had lived it might have been different, but the farm in Asoli where Garin of Lower Corte had taken his three sons had been a dour, womanless place—acceptable perhaps for the twins, who had each other, and for the kind of man Garin had slowly become amid the almost featureless spaces of the flatlands, but no source of nurture or warm memories for a small, quick, imaginative youngest child, whose own gifts, whatever they might turn out to be, were not those of the land.

Forgetting is part of our lives, my lord. Sometimes it is a blessing, or we could never move beyond loss.

He was also aware that memory could mislead you, or be lost. He vividly remembered the day he was married, for example, but everything blurred in and around the time his wife had died, and that was much, much later.

The necklace of Al-Rassan had been broken then, the pearls scattering. Now they could be lost.

The land is never truly dead. It can always come back. Or what is the meaning of the cycle of seasons and years?" She wiped her tears away and looked at him. His expression in the darkness was much too sad for a moment such as this. She wished she knew a way to dispel that sorrow, and not only for tonight. He said, "That is mostly true, I suppose. Or true for the largest things. Smaller things can die. People, dreams, a home.

My third glass of a night is blue, Alessan said. The third glass I drink is always of blue wine. In memory of something lost. Lest on any single night I forget what it is I am alive to do.

The effect of being violently driven from home, and that home being despoiled .... it can go on and on like sea-surf against rocks. On and on within a man or a woman, or within a child as it grows up somewhere else, never sat home, only away .

There was a new hole in the world where sorrow could enter.

We aren't heroes if we lead men into battles we will lose.

Tell me, when your wife died...how did you go on living?" He opened his mouth and closed it without answering. She turned away. They went back through the forest to the sea. On the stony strand of the isle, he was still unable to speak. He watched as she unclipped and let fall her purple cloak, and then dropped the brooch that has pinned it and turned and went away along the white stones. The man named Mariscus followed her out of sight. How did you go on living?

It is in the nature of things that when we judge actions to be memorably courageous, they are invariably those that have an impact that resonates: saving other lives at great risk, winning a battle, losing one's life in a valiant attempt to do one or the other. A death of that sort can lead to songs and memories at least as much—sometimes more—than a triumph. We celebrate our losses, knowing how they are woven into the gift of our being here. Sometimes

Everything had already changed though, and both men knew it. The city they had built together—a smaller, quieter repository of some of the same graces Silvenes had embodied under the khalifs—was already finished, its brief flowering done. However this invasion ended, King Badir's city of music and ivory was lost.

the war was over and you had to riot in foolishness lest you remember you were dancing over a million graves. By

This is what happens when the human you love dies. Pieces of you go missing.