Quotes About Loss

Before she turns fourteen, every person she knows will be either enslaved or dead.

Cada minuto que passa é um minuto a menos nesta casa. Nesta vida.

When I lost my sight, Werner, people said I was brave. When my father left, people said I was brave. But it is not bravery; I have no choice. I wake up and live my life. Don't you do the same?

Algumas tristezas nunca deixam de existir.

she's hardly there: just morphine and glassy eyes and an odor that carries him back to Korea.

every second is a second lost.

Out in the forsaken city, every other structure, it seems, is burning or collapsing, but here in front of him is the inverse in miniature: the city remains, but the house he occupies is gone.

This look?" Bastian says, and flourishes his fat hand. "The way he's got nothing left? A German soldier never reaches this point. There's a name for this look. It's

His longing is such that Rex's absence becomes something like a presence, a scalpel left behind in his gut.

she'd left, feeling the emptiness of the big theater

Tre ragazzi passano ridendo e Max li guarda con intensità. Su un muro butterato e chiazzato di licheni è fissata una piccola lapide di pietra. <>Ici a été tuè Buy Gaston Marcel agé de 18 ans, mort pour la France le 11 aout 1944. Jutta si siede per terra. Il mare è gonfio, grigio d'ardesia. Non ci sono lapidi per i tedeschi morti qui.

Somewhere, someone is figuring out how to push back the hood of grief, but Marie-Laure cannot. Not yet.

tang in the back of his throat and he bites back tears. Each morning comes along and you assume it will be similar enough to the previous one—that you will be safe, that your family will be alive, that you will be together, that life will remain mostly as it was. Then a moment arrives and everything changes.

And to Marie Laure this is a double cruelty: that everything else keeps living, that the spinning earth does not pause for even an instant in its trip around the sun.

It's the absence of all the bodies, she thinks, that allows us to forget. It's that the sod seals them over.

every lost book, before it vanished forever, got down to one final copy somewhere, and how it made Hillary think about seeing a white rhinoceros in a zoo in Czechoslovakia once, how the sign said the rhino was one of the last twenty northern white rhinos in the world, the only one left in Europe

Over time his images of the baby, like photographs handled too often, had worn down and creased, lost their definition.

War, Etienne thinks distantly, is a bazaar where lives are traded like any other commodity: chocolate or bullets or parachute silk.

Moonlight: his ropy tail, his shaggy cloven hooves. God knits him together in the womb of Beauty beside his brother and he lives for three winters and dies hundreds of miles from home and for what? Tree lies down in the reeds and fouls the air around him and Omeir wonders what the animal understands and what will happen to Moonlight's two beautiful horns and every breath sends another crack through his heart.

every second it feels as if her father slips farther away.

What you realize, ultimately, when you have nothing to lose, is that even though the world can be kind to you, and reveal its beauty through the thin cracks in everything, in the end it will either take you or leave you.

The bereaved must understand that should they cross paths with a vukodlak, this shell is not their beloved. Only the flesh has been reanimated; the soul, it is presumed, is safe with God.

What is death, after all, but a cessation of involvement with the world, a departure from those you love, and those who love you?

books, like people, die. They die in fires or floods or in the mouths of worms or at the whims of tyrants. If they are not safeguarded, they go out of the world. And when a book goes out of the world, the memory dies a second death.