Quotes About Loss

There is one kind of robber whom the law does not strike at, and who steals what is most precious to men: time.

Hay ladrones a los que no se castiga, pero que roban lo más preciado: el tiempo.

The best way to measure the loss of intellectual sophistication - this "nerdification," to put it bluntly - is in the growing disappearance of sarcasm, as mechanic minds take insults a bit too literally.

They weren't happy memories because your father and I were never happy together. Even if we had been briefly and occasionally happy, everything got sullied, ripped up, and destroyed. But people don't love each other only for happy memories. At a certain point in life, you realize that you just love the memories.

La felicità, – lui disse, – sembra sempre niente, è come l'acqua, e si capisce solo quando è perduta. – È vero, – lei disse. E pensò un poco, e disse: – E anche il male che noi facciamo, è così, sembra niente, sembra una sciocchezza, acqua fresca, mentre lo facciamo. Se no allora la gente non lo farebbe, starebbe più attenta.

And they laughed a little and were very friendly together, the three of them, Anna, Emanuele and Giustino; and they were pleased to be together, the three of them, thinking of all those who were dead, and of the long war and the sorrow and noise and confusion, and of the long, difficult life which they saw in front of them now, full of all the things they did not know how to do.

Accept loss forever Be submissive to everything, open, listening No fear or shame in the dignity of your experience, language, and knowledge Be in love with your life

Write about "leaving." Approach it any way you want. Write about your divorce, leaving the house this morning, or a friend dying.

WRITE EVERYTHING YOU know about dying. Just go. Don't think, "What does she mean by that?" Dive in. We die in all kinds of ways. Who died? When did they die? how? why?

No amount of wishing will bring back the dead.

Jonah's breath came fast and shallow. I reached for his hand. He turned his face to me, his eyes wide with panic. Two frozen ponds. A boy screamed and pounded on the surface, trapped under the ice. Panicking. Trying to break through. But his screams faded, his fists flailed, and he slipped away into the dark. The boy was gone. Nothing left but the ice, clear and smooth enough to skate on.

For a whole day I couldn't remember that Dad was dead. It was as if accepting his death would kill me, too. I lost my mind; I can admit it. If you don't go at least a little crazy when your favorite person dies, something is wrong with you.

The fact that [Jin] didn't know her mother was simply that, another fact. Her mother leaving her was like the breath that singers take at the beginning of a song. Just a thing that happened before her real life began.

Now the house is a museum of everything she can't let go

How not to think of loss, how it takes hold and grows: like lacuna snails, slow and deliberate, on a reed? Why is everything I see the past I've tried to forget?

Waking, I am freighted with memory: my mother's last words spoken--after her death--in a dream: Do you know what it means to have a wound that never heals?

As the smoke rose from the car toward the skyline, I couldn't help thinking that, at any moment, everything we had would be consumed by flames.

Each death was like a hook through my skin, pulling me always backward to that moment. Already I felt the strain of those deaths, those visions, tearing at the fabric of who and where and when I was.

Nickerson began to understand, as only an adolescent on the verge of adulthood can understand, that the carefree days of childhood were gone forever: "Then it was that I, for the first time, realized that I was alone upon a wide and an unfeeling world . . . without one relative or friend to bestow one kind word upon me.

It's lonely to say goodbye. Very lonely. Please. Cry with me. Maybe there's nothing we can do about this. But at least, for now...cry with me. Like your entire body...is screaming at the sky. Like it's raging against the world. I lost something. And I don't have a single guarantee. The fear of living in this world again after that...I have only a shred of hope to sustain me. So I want you at least...to cry. Cry. Cry with me. Like the day you were first born into this world.

There's no such thing as a person who has to go away.

My chest hurts...It hurts. The sound of his name is like a knife in my heart.

To be left behind... or to leave behind. I wonder which hurts more.

Being left behind, or leaving behind...I wonder which hurts more.