Quotes About Loss

What one exorcises in this [imagery] way at little cost, and for the price of a few tears, will never in effect be reproduced

When the real no longer is what it used to be, nostalgia assumes its full meaning.

He who has everything will keep what he has. From him who has nothing, even that will be taken away. Philosophy leads to death, sociology leads to suicide. Shrivelled anus, short-windedness, limp member, short-sightedness, angioplastied ventricle, urethral polyps - but a clear, hard head.

I only fear the death of others. For me, true death is that of the people I love

Si le feu brûlait ma maison, qu'emporterais-je? J'aimerais emporter le feu...

I kept nothing of myself but the ashes.

This was more than death, it was the heart's death.

War and death can silence the strongest of men.

Liberty can be obtained, it cannot be regained.

ship returned from Jamaica — withou' Sammy. He had died of fever in the West Indies.

Nat was by her, holding her hand, when she died.

He didn't know he had only the shell of the woman he loved. It didn't matter. The shell was enough.

Concha would cry when she found out I was dead, she should have no taste for life for months afterward. But I was still the one who was going to die. I thought of her soft, beautiful eyes. when she looked at me something passed her to me. But I knew it was over: if she looked at me now the look would stay in her eyes, it wouldn't reach me. I was alone

C'est tout pareil quand on a perdu l'illusion d'être eternel.

And yet-I wonder. Love or hatred calls for self-surrender. He cuts a fine figure, the warm-blooded, prosperous man, solidly entrenched in his well-being, who one fine day surrenders all to love-or to hatred; himself, his house, his land, his memories.

But they never last, the golden days. And it can be sad, the sun in the afternoon, can't it? Yes, it can be sad, the afternoon sun, sad and frightening.

The house was burning, the yellow-red sky was like the sunset...Nothing would be left, the golden ferns and the silver ferns, the orchids, the ginger lilies and the roses...When they had finished, there would be nothing left but blackened walls and the mounting stone. That was always left. That could not be stolen or burned.

When I complain about the bandages she says: 'I promise you that when you take them off you'll be just as you were before.' And it is true. When she takes them off there is not one line, not one wrinkle, not one crease. And five weeks afterwards there I am, with not one line, not one wrinkle, not one crease. And there he is, lying with a ticket tied around his wrist because he died in a hospital. And there I am looking down at him, without one line, without one wrinkle, without one crease...

Shall I tell her that in spite of everything they did I died then? Shall I tell her what it feels like to be dead? It's not being sad, it's quite different. It's being nothing, feeling nothing. (...) it's like walking along a road in a fog, knowing that you have left everything behind you. But you don't want to go back; you've got to go on.

The house was burning, the yellow-red sky was like sunset and I knew that I would never see Coulibri again. Nothing would be left, the golden ferns and the silver ferns, the orchids, the ginger lilies and the roses, the rocking-chairs and the blue sofa, the jasmine and the honeysuckle, and the picture of the Miller's Daughter. When they had finished, there would be nothing left but blackened walls and the mounting stone. That was always left. That could not be stolen or burned.

There is no control over memory.

When my first love affair came to an end I wrote this poem: I didn't know I didn't know I didn't know.

Ton départ était moins cruel que ton retour.

It's at moment of misfortune that we remember we're all exiles.