Quotes About Loss

But inside loss there can be gain, too,like the small silver spider Bela had discovered one dewy morning, curled asleep at the center of a rose.

When one has to leave behind almost everything, it hardly matters what one takes.

I heard the laments of the people of Hastinapur, their sorrow at losing us. But I no longer required their tears. It baffled me that as a younger women I'd thought that such a thing would make me happy.

It felt as though someone had reached into him and was wresting out his heart. In later life his sorrows would be deep-drawn and bone-aching sad, but never like this. Perhaps only the young can feel such exquisitely intense pain.

I learned a new fact about love that day: it could kill. Sometimes it could kill instantaneously.

Nabakumar sighs. 'Ma,' he says. Then he is gone.

People get addicted to love. Or just to having someone around. So many times Mr. Mehta gave me grief. I had to get his permission for every little thing: read a book, go to the cinema, even phone my parents. A lot of times he'd say no just because he could. Yet when he died, I wept and wept.

Once I heard my mother say that each of us lives in a separate universe, one that we have dreamed into being. We love people when their dream coincides with ours, the way two cutout designs laid one on top of the other might match. But dream worlds are not static like cutouts; sooner or later they change shape, leading to misunderstanding, loneliness and loss of love.

should have remembered how tricky the gods are. How they give what you want with one hand while taking away, with the other, something much more valuable. Yes, fame would come to both the young men, and bards would sing of their exploits oftener than they sang of their fathers'. But when they did so, listeners would turn away to hide their tears.

Sometimes—she knows this from her own life—to get to the other side, you must travel through grief. No detours are possible.

What I am leaving behind—I cannot articulate what it is, but I know I will not find it, ever, in America.

But to whom can she say this? Who will listen to her? The power she possessed even a few days ago, as the Sarkar's favourite queen, has faded.

Ram, lifting him up, also wept, because he knew that Dasharath was dead. 'He died just moments after you left, crying your name, his eyes darkening even before the dust had settled from the passing of your chariot,' Bharat said. I learned a new fact about love that day: it could kill.

Much has been written about Arjun's grief at this eleventh hour and what Krishna said in response to shake him out of immobility.

Grief has pulled her out further than she thought she could go. To the edge of what it is possible to bear, of what's habitable, and then further again.

You know that grief cannot be avoided. And that when it finds a person, they might look the same but they're changed: their missing person has altered the atmosphere in the house, the classroom, the playground; on birthdays and holidays; amongst friends and with the parent who survives.

I wanted to tell you that I was so sad I felt as if I might be happy, or in love, simply because such powerful feelings can appear the same to the naive. I was mighty with grief, and I thought I should be empowered by it. I thought my hands should shine with a yellow light, and that should I reach out to touch our mother on the head, I would call her back from the place she'd gone.

She might do what the mortals did, and strain to convince herself that the death of her Boy and the loss of her husband had happened for some reason, that some restitution would be made for her, that she would be paid for her suffering with a truer and more tolerable understanding of the world, but she didn't think she had the muscles for it.

Yesterday I fell in love, today feels like my funeral, I just got hit by a bus, shouldn't have been so beautiful, dont know why I gave my heart, gave my trust, gave everything.

I NEVER THOUGHT I WOULD SEE THE DAY THAT WE GREW APART

I have a box at school, Storm, filled with photos of friends and famiy. They have one thing in common. They're all dead. How long 'til add your name to the list, huh? What am I suppposed to do, keep on going 'til there's no one left I love?

This is the forked tongue of grief again. It whispers in one ear: return to what you once loved best, and in the other ear it whispers, move on.

In the end I suppose we lay flowers on a grave because we cannot lay ourselves on it.

Still shaking, in the pew, I understood that it isn't the dead we cry for. We cry for ourselves, and I didn't deserve my own pity.