Quotes About Loss

Love doesn't die; the men and women do.

The scattered tea goes with the leaves and every day a sunset dies.

She clung to that which had robbed her, as people do.

Who gathers the withered rose?

It was too late. Maybe yesterday, while I was still a child, but not now. I knew too much, had seen too much, I was a child no longer now; innocence and childhood were forever lost, forever gone from me.

Caddy put her arms around me, and her shining veil, and I couldn't smell trees anymore and I began to cry.

Because if memory exists outside of the flesh it won't be memory because it won't know what it remembers so when she became not then half of memory became not and if I become not then all of remembering will cease to be. -Yes he thought Between grief and nothing I will take grief.

Then it wasn't and she was, and now it is and she wasn't.

I heard that my mother is dead. I wish I had time to let her die. I wish I had time to wish I had. It is because in the wild and outraged earth too soon too soon too soon. It's not that I wouldn't and will not it's that it is too soon too soon too soon.

Why yes he thought it ain't a place a man wants to go back to; the place dont even need to be there no more. What aches a man to go back to is what he remembers. from... THE MANSION page 106

It's because she wants it told he thought so that people whom she will never see and whose names she will never hear and who have never heard her name nor seen her face will read it and know at last why God let us lose the War: that only through the blood of our men and the tears of our women could He stay this demon and efface his name and lineage from the earth.

He is looking down at her peaceful, rigid face fading into the dusk as though darkness were a precursor of the ultimate earth, until at last the face seems to float detached upon it, lightly as the reflection of a dead leaf.

It was her wedding dress and it had a flare-out bottom, and they had laid her head to foot in it so the dress could spread out, and they had made her a veil out of a mosquito bar so the auger holes in her face wouldn't show.

He just stood and looked at his dying mother, his heart too full for words.

when she became not then half of memory became not and if I become not then all of remembering will cease to be.—Yes, he thought, between grief and nothing I will take grief.

But this time as soon as he moved she began to fade. He stopped at once, not breathing again, motionless, willing his eyes to see that she had stopped too. But she had not stopped. She was fading, going. Wait, he said, talking as sweet as he had ever heard his voice speak to a woman: Den lemme go wid you, honey. But she was going.

She died in one of the downstairs rooms, in a heavy walnut bed with a curtain, her gray head propped on a pillow yellow and moldy with age and lack of sunlight.

But who knows why a man, though suffering, clings, above all the other well members, to the arm or leg which he knows must come off?

It was not for an outrage that they grieved, but for simple grief: the only alternative to which was nothing, and between grief and nothing only the coward takes nothing.

Ay, grief goes, fades; we know that–but ask the tear ducts if they have forgotten how to weep.

Then she too seemed to blow out of his life on the long wind like a third scrap of paper.

the long sleep that outlasts love

They came on. I opened the gate and they stopped. turning. I was trying to say, and I caught her, trying to say, and she screamed and I was trying to say and trying and the bright shapes were going again. They were going up the hill to where it fell away and tried to cry. But when I breathed in, I couldn't breathe out again to cry, and I tried to keep from falling off the hill and I fell off the hill into the bright, whirling shapes.

When he touched me I died.