Quotes About Loss

Don't you like the sea any more?' she asked. [...] 'No,' said the man. 'I don't think so. I think I hate it.' But then, feeling the hollow, vague coldness inside the glass, and going away from the sea, there was nothing at all left and nothing mattered at all. 'I don't feel anything about it,' he said. 'I don't feel anything about anything.

I said I wanted to see her. 'You can't.' He turned the key, dropped it into his pocket, threw a pistol down on the table. 'She's dead.' A knife went through me. All other deaths in the world were outside; this one was in my body, like a bayonet, like my own.

When one by one our ties are torn, And friend from friend is snatched forlorn; When man is left alone to mourn, Oh! then how sweet it is to die!

not since I sacrificed the word love for the thing have I fought such a mind in my war.

I have been alone since my husband died. I stay in my home. I don't date. It's hard to date when you're at home. Nobody knows you.

Here is one of the worst things about having someone you love die: It happens again every single morning.

One of the most oft-quoted records of the siege, scribbled in pencil over the pages of a pocket address book, is that kept by twelve-year-old Tanya Savicheva: 28 December 1941 at 12.30 a.m. – Zhenya died. 25 January 1942 at 3 p.m. – Granny died. 17 March at 5 a.m. – Lyoka died. 13 April at 2 a.m. – Uncle Vasya died. 10 May at 4 p.m. – Uncle Lyosha died. 13 May at 7.30 a.m. – Mama died. The Savichevs are dead. Everyone is dead. Only Tanya is left.

Wait, I thought to myself! He wants to wait until everything that once was dear to him is trampled under foot.

Mothers, justifiably fearful for every pfennig and always asking, What's it for? willingly gave up their sons and parts of their sons as long as they kept on playing this march. Once the music has faded away, they'd ask softly, What for? What for?

I had never heard that before; and so poor Rob Roy who was killed at that hunt was my brother! I did not wonder that my mother was so troubled. It seems that horses have no relations; at least, they never know each other after they are sold.

Oh, Mum,' Rosie said softly. 'I missed you. Every single day. I have missed you so much.

The kid looked up, her bright blue eyes a little picture of health. So innocent and trusting, Rosie thought. The look we all had before life comes crashing in and sweeps it all away.

Only do not forget, If I wake up crying it's because in my dreams I'm a lost child hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands. Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets, XXI

That for the rest of her life she'd long to hold that hand one more time, and no matter how many other hands she held, she would never find one as warm and soft.

Well, it's hard to say how I am these days, and that's the truth. I guess I'm still numb from my mother's death. I still can't quite believe I'll never see her again. That's the hardest part, suddenly thinking I'll have to tell her something later, and then I remember she's not there.

We take so much into us when we lose someone we love," he said. "We must hold what is left of them. We make choices they would have made, feel what they would have felt. This is the piece of ourselves we lose, you see, because we must make room for them. Death is a parasite, of sorts.

disappeared beneath Soviet avenues of cracked concrete; how variety – medieval stone foundations, baroque seminarium doors, classical columns, Prussian red brick walls, and delicate shop windows – had vanished behind spectacular monotony; how churches and pastry shops, farmers' markets, tobacconists, a university and schools and law courts gave way to numbered apartment blocks.

Her smile faded. "Do you know the worst thing about it? I forgot him. Daemon was a friend, and I forgot him. That Winsol, before I was…he gave me a silver bracelet. I don't know what happened to it. I had a picture of him. I don't know what happened to that either. And then he gave everything he had to help me, and when it was done, everyone walked away from him as if he didn't matter.

Misery is a heart that can never be content with what it has and, by always craving something more, brings about its own destruction. And desolation is a heart so fearful of losing what it hoards that it never knows the richness that comes from being able to give.

Friends were valued. Family—pack—was valued. And the loss of a member wasn't forgotten.

Some men die for lack of love…some die because of it. Think about it." - Daemon

As lover you reach forward to a point in time called "then" when you will bite into the long-desired apple. Meanwhile you are aware that as soon as "then" supervenes upon "now," the bittersweet moment, which is your desire, will be gone. You cannot want that, and yet you do.

Perhaps the hardest thing about losing a lover is to watch the year repeat its days.

Your grief is as great as your splendor was: some god is weighing the one out equal to the other.