Quotes About Loss

Ernest Hemingway

L'amore è l'amore e il divertimento è divertimento. Ma c'è sempre un tale silenzio quando muore un pesciolino rosso.

A Farewell to Arms To

Cómo te arruinaste? —preguntó Bill. —De dos formas: primero poco a poco, y luego de repente.

Now I don't give a shit I lost him, David said. I don't care about the records. I just thought I did. I'm glad that he's all right and that I'm all right. We aren't enemies. I'm glad you told us, Thomas Hudson said. Thank you very much, Mr. Davis for what you said when I first lost him, David said with his eyes still shut. Thomas Hudson never knew what it was that Roger had said to him.

You father was a great man. -But I don't know. It looks to me like, when they turn some man, than there's nothing left of him.

Ta?iau nakt? pabudo ir apkabino j? stipriai, tartum ji b?t? buvusi visas jo gyvenimas; visas gyvenimas, kurio jis netenka. Laik? j? gl?by jausdamas, jog ji - visas jo gyvenimas; o taip ir buvo iš ties?. Ta?iau ji miegojo kietai ir nepabudo.

like Ned was killed. We made her go and we hired

They had chopped wood here too; then they were gone. Gone to the fields, the small towns, the cities – where they died. There was always news coming back to the quarter about someone who had been killed or who had been sent to prison for killing someone else: Snowball, stabbed to death in a nightclub in Port Allen; Claudee, killed by a woman in New Orleans; Smitty, sent to the state penitentiary for manslaughter. And there were others who did not go anywhere but simply died slower

Bet, kad aukstie lieti l?st bez mitas un nogalina pavasari, š?iet, ka velt?gi aizg?jusi boj? jaun? dz?v?ba.

The most tragic form of loss isn't the loss of security; it's the loss of the capacity to imagine that things could be different.

To live a life of love is to know betrayal and loss.

What I can see, and she has not yet grasped, is that the thing she's really afraid to lose is not him -it's the part of herself he's awakened. You think you had a relationship with truck man, I tell her. Actually, you had an intimate encounter with yourself mediated by him.

Adultery is often the revenge of the deserted possibilities.

The person I once was, but lost, is the person you once knew.

I've observed an interesting connection between my patients' responses to betrayal and the type of justice they are likely to seek. Some mourn the loss of the connection. "I'm hurt because I lost you." Others mourn the loss of face. "I can't believe you made such an idiot of me." One is a relational injury; the second, a narcissistic one. Wounded hearts; wounded pride.

Betrayed by our beloved, we suffer the loss of a coherent narrative—the "internal structure that helps us predict and regulate future actions and feelings [creating] a stable sense of self," as psychiatrist Anna Fels defines it.

We are willing to concede that the future is unpredictable, but we expect the past to be dependable. Betrayed by our beloved, we suffer the loss of a coherent narrative—the "internal structure that helps us predict and regulate future actions and feelings [creating] a stable sense of self," as psychiatrist Anna Fels defines it.

When we love we always risk the possibility of loss—by criticism, rejection, separation, and ultimately death—regardless of how hard we try to defend against it. Introducing uncertainty sometimes requires nothing more than letting go of the illusion of certitude. In this shift of perception, we recognize the inherent mystery of our partner.

Steven Stosny observes that "if loss of power was the problem in intimate betrayal, then anger would be the solution. But the great pain in intimate betrayal has little to do with loss of power. Perceived loss of value is what causes your pain—you feel less lovable.

Affairs are an act of betrayal and they are also an expression of longing and loss.

He was going to think about her and think about her until she disappeared.

Is the sorrow of death the same as the sorrow of knowing the pain in a child's future? What about the melancholy of music? Is it the same as the melancholy of a summer dusk? Is the loss I was feeling for my father the same I would have felt for a man better-fit to the world, a man who might have thrown a baseball with me or taken me out in the mornings to fish? Both we call grief. I don't think we have words for our feelings any more than we have words for our thoughts.

Thank God. You are now a little bit lighter, you are a little bit more you. 'Cause if you can lose it—a car, an idea, a belief, a woman—it wasn't yours.