Quotes About Loss

Gândurile cele mai adânci ÅŸi cele mai scumpe sunt acelea pentru care regret?m c? n-avem lacrimi.

Any and all water is the color of drowning.

Al igual que amas los libros que te hacen llorar, las sonatas que te han cortado el aliento, los perfumes que te insinúan renunciamientos, a las mujeres extraviadas entre el cuerpo y el alma, así sucede con los mares: te enamoras de aquellos cuyo oleaje induce a ahogarse en su seno.

CîÅŸtig?m în planul conÅŸtiinÅ£ei ceea ce pierdem în planul existenÅ£ei.

M-am gândit iar??i c? în unele ??ri din America Latin? se spune despre cel r?posat de curând: «a devenit indiferent».

Într-o inim? în care s-a aÅŸezat nimicul, irupÅ£ia dragostei e atât de nespus de sfâÅŸietoare fiindc? ea nu g?seÅŸte nici un teren de înflorire.

Am primit azi scrisoarea cu fotografia tatii. In cea mic?, l-am g?sit aproape neschimbat, doar puÅ£in îmb?trînit; în cealalt?, luat? în catedral?, l-am reg?sit cu greu, c?ci tr?s?turile exprim? senin?tatea teribil? a veÅŸniciei. M? gîndesc cît de cumplite trebuie s? fie zilele f?r? el.

Nu c?ut?m noi totul, fiindc? am pierdut ceva?

Every thought should recall the ruin of a smile.

Ce importanta ar avea însa sa stim pe cine a pierdut, cînd stim prea bine ce a pierdut si unde duce aceasta pierdere.

Mama a fost o fiin?? admirabil?. Asta pentru noi e o consolare. Scrie-mi cît ai cheltuit cu înmormîntarea. Natural, voi contribui ÅŸi eu. C?ci viaÅ£a p?mînteanului este umbr? ÅŸi vis. Mi-aduc aminte de cuvintele astea pline de înÅ£elepciune care se rostesc, cred, la parastas. Ele spun totul.

Retras la Å£ar? dup? moartea fiicei sale Tulia, Cicero, copleÅŸit de mâhnire, îÅŸi adresa lui însuÅŸi scrisori de consolare. Ce p?cat c? nu au fost g?site ÅŸi, mai mult decât atât, ce p?cat c? aceast? terapie nu a devenit curent?! E drept c?, de-ar fi fost adoptat?, religiile d?deau de mult faliment.

Losing love is so rich a philosophical ordeal that it makes a hairdresser into a rival of Socrates.

Emily Dickinson: «I felt a funeral in my brain».1 Podría añadir, como Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, «en todos los momentos de mi vida». Funeral perpetuo del espíritu.

I cannot differentiate between tears and music' (Nietzsche). Whoever is not immediately struck by the profundity of this statement has not lived for a minute in the intimacy of music. I know no other music than that of tears. Born out of the loss of paradise, music gives birth to the symbols of this loss: tears.

She meant absolutely nothing to me. Realizing, suddenly, after so many years, that whatever happens i shall never see her again, I nearly collapsed. We understand what death is only by suddenly remembering the face of someone who has been a matter of indifference to us.

We have lost, being born, as much as we shall lose, dying. Everything.

For all we tell ourselves about not outliving a stillborn babe, instead of clearing out at the first opportunity, we cling, with lunatic energy, to one day more.

Expression diminishes you, impoverishes you, lifts weights off you: expression is loss of substance, and liberation.

An idea, a being, anything which becomes incarnate loses identity, turns grotesque.

Death reaches so far, requires so much room, that I no longer know where to die.

We understand what death is only by suddenly remembering the face of someone who has been a matter of indifference to us.

Since these retarded creatures, these haters, are becoming increasingly rare, and since Christianity finds no comfort for the loss of so lasting a popularity, it seeks on all sides an event likely to restore it to the foreground, to actuality.

This very second has vanished forever, lost in the anonymous mass of the irrevocable. It will never return.