Quotes About Loss

A loss like this was a progression of miseries, like stepping-stones. Until they reached the other side. The new continent. Where the terrible reality lived, and the sun never fully came out again. But where, with time and help, they might find acceptance and, with that, peace.

Most of the people came through my door because of a crisis in their lives, and most of those crises boiled down to loss. Loss of a marriage or an important relationship. Loss of security. A job, a home, a parent. Something drove them to ask for help and to look deep inside themselves. And the catalyst was often change and loss.

Irene Finney filled the void with a child not loved then lost, but first lost, then loved.

People die in bits and pieces. A series of petites morts. Little deaths. They lose their sight, their hearing, their independence. Those are the physical ones. But there're others. Less obvious, but more fatal. They lose heart. They lose hope. They lose faith. They lose interest. And finally, they lose themselves

That's a huge one, of course. Most of us are great with change, as long as it was our idea. But change imposed from the outside can send some people into a tailspin. I think Brother Albert hit it on the head. Life is loss. But out of that, as the book stresses, comes freedom. If we can accept that nothing is permanent, and change is inevitable, if we can adapt, then we're going to be happier people.

The morning after their deaths, Armand had gone into their room. The scent of them, the sense of them, almost too much to bear. The clothing. The book. The bookmark. The bedside clock, still ticking. He'd thought that strange. Surely it should have stopped.

And as he felt the final beat of Sonny's heart Gamache had had the impression it wasn't that his old heart had stopped but that Sonny had finally given it all away.

They'd crossed over to that continent where grieving parents lived. It looked the same as the rest of the world, but wasn't. Colors bled pale. Music was just notes. Books no longer transported or comforted, not fully. Never again. Food was nutrition, little more. Breaths were sighs. And they knew something the rest didn't. They knew how lucky the rest of the world was.

In grief people were themselves and not themselves.

Their lives could not be defined by their deaths. They belonged not in perpetual pain but in the beauty of their short lives.

I know how precious life is. You had no right to take Renaud's and you have no right to take your own now. Not over this. Too much death. It needs to stop.

Champlain missing was so much more potent than Champlain found.

struck. Once. And into that blow he put his childhood, his grief, his loss. He put his mother's sorrow and his sister's longing. The menorah, weighed down with that, crushed the Hermit's skull.

Take this in to them, s'il vous plaît, " Chef Véronique's large ruddy hand trembled slightly as she motioned to the trays. "And bring out the pots already there. They'll want fresh tea." She knew this was a lie. What the family wanted they could never have again. But tea was all she could give them. So she made it. Over and over.

she was left with the warmth of the words from books now ash.

This village has known loss, people killed before their time, accidents, war, disease. Three Pines isn't immune to any of that. But you seem to accept it as part of life and not hang on to the bitterness.

though her legs had given way. Loss was like that, Gamache knew. You didn't just lose a loved one. You lost your heart, your memories, your laughter, your brain and it even took your bones. Eventually it all came back,

Clara knew that grief took a terrible toll. It was paid at every birthday, every holiday, each Christmas. It was paid when glimpsing the familiar handwriting, or a hat, or a balled-up sock. Or hearing a creak that could have been, should have been, a footstep. Grief took its toll each morning, each evening, every noon hour as those who were left behind struggled forward.

Armand stood up, still holding Stephen's hand, and said, "It's time. Let him go." Then he sat back down, his legs weak. If this was the right thing to do, why did it feel so wrong? But no, it didn't feel wrong. It felt wretched. Horrific. A nightmare. But sometimes "right" felt like that.

Would he love this place less because he needed it less? Again he looked at Three Pines, the little village lost in the valley and felt the familiar lifting of his heart. But would it lift if there was no load? Was the final fear that, in losing his fears, he would also lose his joy?

life is loss,' said Myrna after a moment. 'Loss of parents, loss of loves, loss of jobs. So we have to find a higher meaning in our lives than these things and people. Otherwise we'll lose ourselves.

Alcohol stole dignity and friends and family and livelihoods before finally taking the life. Alcohol was a thief. And often a murderer.

They'd crossed over to that continent where grieving parents lived. It looked the same as the rest of the world, but wasn't. Colors bled pale. Music was just notes. Books no longer transported or comforted, not fully. Never again. Food was nutrition, little more. Breaths were sighs.

She closed her eyes and felt him inside her skin. Where he was vibrant and smart and irreverent and loving. She saw his smile, heard his laugh. Felt his hands. Felt his body. Now he was gone. But he hadn't left. And she sometimes wondered if that was him, beating on her heart. And she wondered what would happen if he stopped. Every night she came here. Parked. And stared at the window. Hoping to see some sign of life.