Quotes About Loss

For want of a nail the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe the horse was lost; for want of a horse the rider was lost; for want of a rider the message was lost; for want of the message the battle was lost; for want of the battle the war was lost; for want of the war the kingdom was lost; and all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

Not so much of dying, if—I'm afraid of annihilation. Of not being.

we would, all of us, be less than we are if it weren't for those we love and who've loved us who have died.

After Justin's death she had had it cut short, and felt that it was more becoming than the heavy masses of long hair he had loved, and which took forever to dry and dress. The short, well-styled hair toweled dry in a few minutes, and fell in becoming waves over her high forehead, her small delicate ears, showing the graceful curve of her neck.

Maybe our intimacies are more precious if we know they may be taken away.

she was very frightened because the world had changed all of a sudden and it wasn't hers anymore and she didn't know who owned it.

What happens to what's happened? she asked the bishop. It's there. Waiting. But the time gate's closed, isn't it? Yes. But that can't take away what we've had. The good and the bad.

You know when you cut yourself really badly, it doesn't hurt for a while. You don't feel anything. Death- our reaction to death- is sort of like that. You don't feel anything at all. And then, later on, you begin to hurt.

But there it was again. His face, handsome, petulant, impatient, the way he was when he didn't get what he wanted. 'Get out of here, Louis,' she said aloud. 'I've nothing to lose now,' Louis said. 'I'll bring you down with me, you'll be sorry you didn't listen to me. I've nothing to lose.' There was a huge truck. The lights of a truck and a terrible shattering of glass and … Then there was nothing.

Life went on. And it was quite usual to see young people taking a boat out over the quiet water of the lake in Lough Glass at night. Stevie and Kit took the little box of ashes and sprinkled it in the water. The moon was high in the sky and they didn't feel sad. It wasn't really a funeral. All that was over, in London and years ago … the first time. This wasn't a sad thing, it was just the right thing to do.

It ended badly. As everything Helen Doyle had ever touched seemed to end.

Her bed felt huge and empty now, and when she slept, she did so with her arm around a pillow. She dreamed of him almost every night, sometimes good dreams of happy days and joyful times; often they were terrible dreams of abandonment, loss and sorrow. She didn't know which was worse: every morning she woke afresh to the knowledge that he was gone and he would never come back. It would never be all right again.

It was different for him. Larry's mother was long dead, his brothers and sisters scattered, his father a

We all have to be strong in honor of Hooves. He wasn't the kind of spirit that people go bawling and crying about. In his honor, be strong.

199. For to wish to forget how much you loved someone—and then, to actually forget—can feel, at times, like the slaughter of a beautiful bird who chose, by nothing short of grace, to make a habitat of your heart.

What are you supposed to do with all the love you have for somebody if that person is no longer there? What happens to all that leftover love? Do you suppress it? Do you ignore it? Are you supposed to give it to someone else?

I find,' he says, his voice still muffled, 'that I am constantly wondering where he is. Where he has gone. It is like a wheel ceaselessly turning at the back of my mind. Whatever I am doing, wherever I am, I am thinking: Where is he, where is he? He can't have just vanished. He must be somewhere. All I have to do is find him. I look for him everywhere, in every street, in every crowd, in every audience. That's what I am doing, when I look out at them all: I try to find him, or a version of him.

Partings are strange. It seems so simple: one minute ago, four, five, he was here, at her side; now, he is gone. She was with him; she is alone. She feels exposed, chill, peeled like an onion.

And there, by the fire, held in the arms of his mother, in the room in which he learnt to crawl, to eat, to walk, to speak, Hamnet takes his last breath. He draws it in, he lets it out. Then there is silence, stillness. Nothing more.

The leaves crisping at their edges. Here is a season Hamnet has not known or touched. Here is a world moving on without him.

The sound that comes out of him is choked and smothered, like that of an animal forced to bear a great weight. It is a noise of disbelief, of anguish. Anges will never forget it. At the end of her life, when her husband has been dead for years, she will still be able to summon its exact pitch and timbre.

No, my dad and I moved here six years ago after my mom died. We lived in Wisconsin

when Orrin and Maria Brand had been killed in that car accident, leaving him as sole caretaker to his five younger siblings. And when

People are ruined by challenged economic lives. But they are ruined by wealth as well because they lose their ambition and they lose their pride and they lose their sense of self-worth