Quotes About Loss

I live on an island called Ireland where most of the music is shite. I grew up listening to "Danny Boy"; I grew up hating Danny Boy, and all his siblings and his granny. "The pipes, the pipes are caw-haw-hawing." Anything with pipes or fiddles or even - forgive me, Paul - banjos, I detested. Songs of loss, of love, of going across the sea; songs of defiance and rebellion - I vomited on all of them.

I cried, a bit, as a spoke to Belinda on my mobile phone, in a quiet corner, perhaps the only quiet corner in Jaipur. I told her how I'd hoped Paul would read the forward, that he'd read how much I admired his work and how much I admired him, how much I just plain liked him and loved him. But, even as I spoke, I knew: Paul had always known that. He'd seen in on my face every time we met. What made me cry was the obvious, stupid fact that we'd never meet again.

Thousands of those who had fought alongside the Macedonians were sold into slavery.

Now an empty shell, after its heart was blown out by a Venetian cannonball in 1687

I used to belong to a family unit, with a foster mom and dad and my little sister, Bean, but that's over and I don't want to talk about what happened , or how unfair it was. Not yet. The less said about that the better, because if there's one thing I learned from Ryter it's that you can't always be looking backward or something will hit you from the front.

My childhood was rough. Once for my birthday, my old man gave me a bat. The first day I played with it, it flew away.

Andy also skipped his wife's private burial in the Brooklin Cemetery, in July, 1977. None of us in the family expected otherwise or held this against him. And when his own memorial came, eight years later, I took the chance to remark, "If Andy White could be with us today he would not be with us today.

perder unas elecciones es normal en una democracia: lo malo es perder la democracia en unas elecciones. Y eso es justamente lo que podría pasar en las próximas elecciones de 2021.

In our case, as for countless other Jews, the price of integration was the loss of millennia of Jewish tradition. The Torah's instruction gave way to the moral void of modernity, a hectic dance over absence. Many

He was the most widely travelled poet of the Renaissance; a man who lost an eye in Morocco, who was exiled to the East for a sword fight, who was destitute in Goa and shipwrecked in the Mekong Delta – he swam ashore clutching his manuscript above his head while his Chinese lover drowned.

There is nothing glamorous about death.

Sans doute, nos vacances sont perdues, mais l'avenir est intact.

I will always be alone, as nobody will be able to replace you. I tried several times, out of despair, in order to not fall lower. But I have never written and will never write letters like the ones you have from me

Grief. The state of mind brought about when love, having lost to death, learns to breathe beside it. See also love.

In every heartbreak beauty intrudes.

But in the time since she died, I have been aware, every minute, of my love for her. She lives in my love.

It is an ancient view that truth, goodness, and beauty cannot, in the end, conflict. Maybe the degeneration of beauty into kitsch comes precisely from the postmodern loss of truthfulness, and with it the loss of moral direction.

I think there are things in my story that have helped my creativity. Your father being killed, for instance, is one of the best things that could happen to a kid if he's going to write poetry or songs.

Warum sollte nicht fehlen können, was man nie besaß?

Everyone underestimates their own life. Funny thing is, in the end, all our stories...they're the same. In fact, no matter where you go in the world, there is only one important story: of youth, loss and yearning for redemption. So we tell the same story, over and over. Only the details are different.

May cocktails. A sad, depressing sensation of a seasonal and social stereotype. What comes to my mind is that maman is no longer here and life, stupid life, continues.

To whom could I put this question (with any hope of an answer)? Does being able to live without someone you loved mean you loved her less than you thought...?

Isn't the most sensitive point of this mourning the fact that I must lose a language — the amorous language? No more 'I love you's.

It is said that mourning, by its gradual labour, slowly erases pain; I could not, I cannot believe this; because for me, Time eliminates the emotion of loss (I do not weep), that is all. For the rest, everything has remained motionless. For what I have lost is not a Figure (the Mother), but a being; and not a being, but a quality (a soul): not the indispensable, but the irreplaceable.