Quotes About Loss

Goodbye Kid. Hurry back. – Humphrey Bogart, last words to Lauren Bacall as she briefly left his bedside before his death.

I have at last got busy about Mummy's grave. . . . . The inscription I should like is: EDITH MARY TOLKIEN 1889-1971 Lúthien :brief and jejune, except for Lúthien , which says for me more than a multitude of words: for she was (and knew she was) my Lúthien. … I never called Edith Lúthien – but she was the source of the story that in time became the chief part of the Silmarillion . Letter 340 From a letter to Christopher Tolkien

250,000 men and women who worked in the mills are history. Some died, some became disillusioned, others simply lost their minds. Many committed suicide, some just melted into the background, some retreated to their native villages – while others ended up hawking vegetables beneath the very structures that gave them their bread and butter.

It was the day my grandmother exploded.

I never expected there to be so much death in my life.' I. C. Williams.

Deep in the marrow of our religion is the conviction that loss and sacrifice are noble. To surrender something is the highest proof of Christian duty.

Standing there. watching her go, I felt lonelier than I have ever been in my life.

Molly wasn't hope then, of course, and i can't help hating her for not being there.

Take 100 terminally ill patients. Then take 100 prayer circles around them, days and weeks of praying non-stop. Then 99 of those patients die anyway. But one survives. Do we ever hear the stories of all the failed prayer attempts? No. The only story that appears in the media is the one about the miracle survivor, the healing power of prayer, and the angels who were looking over them. But what about all the patients who just died? Were the angels too busy, or just apathetic? It

His failure to enter the Academy and his mother's death, both occurring within less than four months in late 1907, amounted to a crushing double blow for the young Hitler.

They were expendable.

Loss bites and pulls. It is a thing of hooks sunk into every part of you, parts that you would not think could feel loss like thumbs and lips, hooks moored to wind and memory so that slightest disturbance, the slightest act of recall, tugs at those fine lines. Red is the colour of loss and its smell is like burned roses.

Voices. —You will lose everything. Everything. Everything. —Is this what you really wish? To lose everything you have ever been? —The choice is yours. "And I took it!" he cried to the streaming walls. "I took it!" But he could not remember what it was he had chosen. —He has chosen.

She wished she had Benji Dog back. At least he would have been something to talk to. No famulus. She felt very naked, as if she had slipped through the sustaining fingers of the Compassionate Society and had not been missed.

She could not go back. To the Transients' Hostel. To Kilimanjaro West, her home. To Armitage-Weir and her warm, friendly office. Home. She sat, crushed by a sense of looming inevitability ponderous as a falling moon.

Somos tan egocéntricos que nos creemos la medida de todas las cosas, pero el tiempo nos arrebatará todo lo que somos, todo lo que tenemos, todo lo que llegaremos a construir.

When its gone, you'll know what a gift love was. you'll suffer like this. So go back and fight to keep it.

When it's gone, you'll know what a gift love was. You'll suffer like this. So go back and fight to keep it.

Scotsman's way of dealing with death. He'd found

There was a ring at the door. He did not answer. They would go away, and he would be alone again with his grief, his impotent anger, and his undusted possessions.

Chialer, c'était bon quand on perdait au foot, qu'on vous racontait des histoires d'animaux héroïques, ou en entendant "Flower of Scotland" après l'heure de fermeture.

There is no medicine to be found for a life which has fled.

I had been bigger sucker than a square mark. All he loses is scratch. I had joined a club that suckered me behind bars fives times.

in South Central unexpectedly when I was orphaned at age twelve. I'm originally from New Jersey—born in Newark, raised in a middle-class suburb called Summit. My mother passed suddenly when I was in third grade from a heart attack. My father did his best to raise me on his own for a couple of years, but when I was in seventh