Quotes About Loss

Then she fretted, ah, she fretted, But 'ere six months had gone past, She had got another poodle dog Exactly like the last.… thought Belinda frivolously, but the old song had come into her head and seemed appropriate. Some tame gazelle or some gentle dove or even a poodle dog—something to love, that was the point.

And when adulthood fails you, you can still summon the memory of the black swan on the pond of your childhood, the rye bread with peanut butter and bananas your grandmother gave you while the rest of the family slept. There is the voice you can still summon at will, like your mother's, it will always whisper, you can't have it all, but there is this.

Seems to me people are mean or evil because they're scared, mostly, or in pain, or afraid they're going to lose something.

It's different when the person you love dies. There's an awful finality to death. But it is final. The end. And there's the funeral, family gatherings, grieving, all of those necessary rituals. And they help, believe me. When the object of your love just disappears, there's no way to deal with the grief and pain.

Why do you always wear black?" She delighted me with her answer, the correct, the only, answer. "I'm in mourning for my life. I'm unhappy.

Is there any sadder sight than a burnt out library?

The follies that produced the loss of American virtue following Vietnam begin with continuous overreacting, in the invention of endangered national security, the invention of vital interest, the invention of a commitment which rapidly assumed a life of its own .

Although the mortality rate was erratic, ranging from one fifth in some places to nine tenths or almost total elimination in others, the overall estimate of modern demographers has settled—for the area extending from India to Iceland—around the same figure expressed in Froissart's casual words: "a third of the world died.

The lamps are going out all over Europe; we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.

Friends are most easily acquired in youth, but they are likewise most easily lost.

Leaves are falling casualties.

There's times an angel can't be trusted, or so many wouldn't have lost themselves.

Death is the tyrant of the imagination.

Now death was a place, a place to which people disappeared forever when they died, a place that gradually sucked away the clarity of memory afterward for a similar one-way journey.

And what? Accidentally cuts off three fingers postmortem? 'Oops, oh, no, my girlfriend just died! Clumsy me, in trying to perform CPR, I chopped off some fingers! Guess I'll just take them with me.... Oh, darn, where did that middle finger go?

Love makes you weak. This I know for sure. Mom loved Roger. Roger loved Mom.And look what happpened there. She died. She thought her love made her strong. She kept telling me-after she was diagnosed-she ket telling me, "I'm going to beat this Kyra. I'm going to come out of it. I love you and I love your father and that love is my strength. You're my strength.

Ginny Davis—poor, dead Ginny—had lent Connie a set of yoga DVDs that looked like they'd come from the ancient 1990s.

Mom's already dead!" I yelled at him. "Who the hell do you think you're saving?" And he just gave me his Sad, Tired look. It's one of the three he's got, the other two being Pissed Off and Blised Out on ESPN.

Like life. Last as long as you can. Hold on as long as possible. And there's no shame in losing, because everyone loses. It's just that everyone has a different score. And the scores don't really matter after all. They disappear when you turn off the game.

I remember we woke up one morning at Denny's house and John Phillips called. He said, you guys okay? We said, yeah, what's wrong, what's going on? He said, well, everybody's dead over at Sharon's house at Terry Melcher's place.

Solitary trees, if they grow at all, grow strong: and a boy deprived of a father's care often develops, if he escapes the perils of youth, an independence and a vigour of thought which may restore in after life the heavy loss of early days.

Grief works its own perversions and betrayals; the shape of what we have lost is as subject to corruption as the mortal body...

Want to know the biggest lie ever written? 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

Want to know the biggest lie ever written? 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. What an unmitigated pile of shit.