Quotes About Loss

I'm not using you. I'm losing me.

The death of childhood is the beginning of poetry.

I was committing the most amateurish of errors—escalating my wagers in an attempt to get even—but

was killed at Bridge of Dee, September

If two thousand five hundred languages are to be lost in the course of the twenty-first century, don't be in any doubt about what that means for us: in each of those two thousand five hundreds cases a culture will be lost.

For as long as there are poets, playwrights and men with hearts to break, tales will be told of the princess who died across the water and returned home to be crowned a queen, the queen of all our hearts.

Nor can we see the coffin of a person we have known, without experiencing some new shock of loss. In this respect, a coffin is like a mirror, in which we see the image of our own condition, and understand that our human differences, whether of appearance, morality or wealth, must finally be reconciled.

what intimacy of fellowship, to what wondrous oneness of life and interest, He invited them when He said, Abide in me. This is not only an unspeakable loss to themselves, but the Church and the world suffer in what they lose. If we ask the reason why those who have indeed accepted the Savior, and been made partakers of the renewing of the Holy Ghost

I know I'm out of your life / But the day that I die / I know you are going to cry.

A man he almost stayed with, almost loved, and now he does not even recognize him on the street. Either Less is an asshole, or the heart is a capricious thing. It is not impossible both are true.

Why this endless need for a man as a mirror? To see the Arthur Less reflected there? He is grieving, for sure—the loss of his lover, his career, his novel, his youth—so why not cover the mirrors, rend the fabric over his heart, and just let himself mourn? Perhaps he should try alone.

We all recognize grief in moments that should be celebrations;

by now, he is well acquainted with humility. It is the one piece of luggage he has not lost.

And then, inevitably, one day—it's gone. And we realize that we thought we were the only changing thing, the only variable, in the world; that the objects and people in our lives are there for our pleasure, like the playing pieces of a game, and cannot move of their own accord; that they are held in place by our need for them, by our love. How stupid.

Like a landmark, a pyramid-shaped stone or a cypress, that we assume will never move. So we can find our way home. And then, inevitably, one day—it's gone. And we realize that we thought we were the only changing thing, the only variable, in the world; that the objects and people in our lives are there for our pleasure, like the playing pieces of a game, and cannot move of their own accord; that they are held in place by our need for them, by our love. How stupid

I know I'm out of your life / But the day that I die / I know you are going to cry

And then, inevitably, one day it's gone. And we realise we thought we were the only changing thing, the only variable in the world. That the objects and people in our lives are there for our pleasure. Like the playing pieces of a game and cannot move of their own accord. That they are held in place by our need for them. By our love. How stupid.

With lovers, though, the end is always there. It is a death as certain as the real death, and those of us in love, as at the bedside, begin to prepare ourselves. We might say it isn't working, or I can't give you what you need, and yet a day later there he is in your arms, and who can help it? There is the good-bye, and the good-bye, and the good-bye, and which will stick? Who can ever say, this is the last? One one is true, but all of them feel true, and the tears we shed are equal every time.

he had no idea what to do about death. Two thousand years of flaming Viking boats and Celtic rites and Irish wakes and Puritan worship and Unitarian hymns, and still he was left with nothing.

But heartbreak—how can you avoid it except to renounce love entirely? In the end, that is the only solution Arthur Less could find.

He is grieving, for sure—the loss of his lover, his career, his novel, his youth—so why not cover the mirrors, rend the fabric over his heart, and just let himself mourn? Perhaps he should try alone.

Only in brief flashes does it come to us that we may never see someone again.

the grief...had never been over him, a clumsy foreign child. It had always been for themselves, so young then, learning that you could not tailor your hopes like a suit and expect them to fit forever

Because at funerals, forever is the theme of the day.