Quotes About Loss

I devour it and then I lose it and sometims I can't reach for any knowledge that I ought to possess. I feel desolate, but th knowledge returns or I seek it out in a new source.

Oh, to think this burnt body had within it the blood of tears.

That is one of the worst aspects of evil, that it always involves the death of possible good, always proceeds from the destruction of something that might have been so much better.

The ones we love become our burdens in death, and this is how we remain connected to them.

Pero nada podría darme aquella libertad, nada. Las libertades que me daba ella no significaban nada para mí; su poder no era, en definitiva, sino un grado más del que todos poseíamos. Y lo que poseen todos nunca ha facilitado la contienda; más bien la ha convertido en una agonía, por más que se gane o se pierda.

America destroys her big houses. Some them don't even last a hundred years.

For if there's one thing immortality never frees you from, it's grief.

all you have to lose in death, no matter how long you've lived, is the present moment in which you die.

He was a boy dying here whom few would remember except for me.

Ma la bambina, quell'antica bambina, la mia Claudia, era cenere. Un urlo crebbe dentro di me, un selvaggio e devastante urlo che veniva dalle viscere del mio essere; si alzava come il vento che faceva turbinare la pioggia su quelle ceneri, che batteva sull'impronta di una mano, sui mattoni, che sollevava quei capelli biondi.

I don't know which causes me the greater pain-the loss of my goddess, or my hatred of Santino.

No mortal lives long enough to forget their great loves entirely, do they.

I wanted to feel morally safe, which I would never feel again.

You will have to grow up to her quickly, I thought, surprising myself, or you will lose her.

The bluff heartiness, the posturing, the inflamed face, the badinage were missing. He was gray-white and his eyes were swollen and bloodshot.

So ended . . . a royal friendship which once could not be contained within the common bounds of love.

You're probably right, he whispered. About what? He looked up at him and managed a brief, farewell smile. I rather think Emma did run off with my heart, he confessed.

But it has occurred to me, on occasion, that our memories of our loved ones might not be the point. Maybe the point is their memories—all that they take away with them.

That was one of the worst things about losing your wife, I found: your wife is the very person you want to discuss it all with.

Funny how you have to picture losing a thing before you think you might value it after all.

People imagine that missing a loved one works kind of like missing cigarettes. The first day is really hard but the next day is less hard and so forth, easier and easier the longer you go on. But instead it's like missing water. Every day, you notice the person's absence more.

I'm a roomful of broken hearts

Reading is the first to go, my mother used to say, meaning that it was a luxury the brain dispensed with under duress. She claimed that after my father died she never again picked up anything more demanding than the morning paper. At the time I had thought that was sort of melodramatic of her, but now I found myself reading the same paragraph six times over, and I still couldn't have told you what it was about.

He wanted to say, Muriel, forgive me, but since my son died, sex has... turned. (As milk turns; that was how he thought of it. As milk will alter its basic nature and turn sour.) I really don't think of it anymore. I honestly don't. I can't imagine anymore what all that fuss was about. Now it seems pathetic.