Quotes About Loss

The first experimental convinction that a loss may be sometimes a gain.

No pudo haber dos corazones más abiertos, ni gustos tan similares, ni sentimientos tan unificados. Ahora eran dos extraños. No; peor que extraños, porque jamás podrían llegar a conocerse. Era un exilio perpetuo.

PISTOLETTA: Mondd, papa, milyen messze van London? POPGUN: Leányom, aranyom, legkedvesebb gyermekem, két hónapja elhunyt drága anyám hasonmása, akivel Londonba megyek, hogy férjhez adjam Strephonhoz, és akire ráhagyom majd egész vagyonomat, hét mérföldre van innen.

It's been a difficult few months," I admitted. "You don't really get over it. It is such a great loss," Jane said. "I guess the depth of our grief is a reminder of the depth of our love.

I guess the depth of our grief is a reminder of the depth of our love.

You don't really get over it. It is such a great loss," Jane said. "I guess the depth of our grief is a reminder of the depth of our love.

guess the depth of our grief is a reminder of the depth of our love.

My mother grieved appropriately for a woman who had lost her husband of almost thirty years so tragically, and then, after six months, she blossomed.

She can't explain why she is choked up. She isn't entirely sure, other than the sweetness of Patrick's familiarity, an aching nostalgia for her youth, a reminder of all that is good, and solid, and stable. All that she once had. All that she has lost. Patrick has grown into a big man. Solid. Imposing. His embrace is all-enveloping, tight, stable. Like being held by a bear. Safe, she thinks. I am safe. And almost immediately after: I have come home.

Horrible as this is to admit, I think I cried less because my dad was dying than for the dad I had never had.

It just feels surreal. Every now and then it kind of hits me, but only for a short while, and then it carries on feeling like it didn't really happen, that he's going to walk in this evening and sit in front of the set drinking beer.

The law of thermodynamics, you know, the idea that nothing is lost, that a loss in one area equals a gain in the other, was actually not invented by scientists but by the people who write redemptive fiction. [...] Actually, in real life, we lose things all the time and they're gone. Lost, period.

And so, each day, several thousand more acres of our countryside are eaten by the bulldozers, covered by pavement, dotted with suburbanites who have killed the thing they thought they came to find.

Some who are fortunate enough to have communities still do fight to keep them, but they have seldom prevailed. While people possess a community, they usually understand that they can't afford to lose it; but after it is lost, gradually even the memory of what was lost is lost.

When people leave, they always seem to scoop themselves out of you.

Still others reflected on how quickly the food could be snatched from a man's table, or the child from a woman's breast, or the wife from a man's bedcloset, that no strength of grasp could hold these goods in place. And others remarked to themselves how sweet these goods were, in spite of that, and saw that pleasure lost in every moment is pleasure lost forever.

She could not imagine what she could do to reconstruct all the things she enjoyed, and she could hardly remember what it was that she had enjoyed.

Longing for something that you once had is a mistake because the pictures in your mind are never the same as whatever it is you are longing for.

What do you do with everything that is cut away? she asked Tilman, thinking now about the negative space of stone sculpture, the stone that is discarded, thinking too about how she had thrown away huge pieces of her own early life...

But as the scissors snip-snapped through her hair and the razor shaved the rest, she realized with a sudden awful panic that she could no longer recall anything from the past. I cannot remember, she whispered to herself. I cannot remember. She's been shorn of memory as brutally as she'd been shorn of her hair, without permission, without reason... Gone, all gone, she thought again wildly, no longer even sure what was gone, what she was mourning.

What was can never be again.

It is a fearful thing to love what death can touch.

One day Ilka told me they were moving to America. Her papa, who was a professor, had found work there. "Is it far away?" I asked. "America?" We hadn't studied geography yet. "Over the ocean," she said. I'd never seen the ocean. I thought it was like the pond in the nearby park, only bigger. "I will visit," I said. "I will write," she said. The Nazis came. We did neither.

Almost everybody I know has died," Grandma said. "Bunch of wimps.