Quotes About Loss

Sabe V. que es muy triste para mí el perderla á v. después de haberla conocido?

Do you remember that night, that stormy night when you, seeing me alone and crying next to my mother's lifeless body, came toward me and put your hand on my shoulder, the hand that for so long you refused to let me hold, and said to me: 'You have lost your mother, I ever had one.' And you cried with me. [...] Could I ever forget you?

One death is a tragedy. A million deaths is a statistic.

Sollocé inconsolablemente por lo que se me moría, antes de vivirlo. Sin saberlo, creyendo que lloraba por mí, en realidad lloraba por los dos más agrios dolores del hombre: el amor y el adiós.

Noi am pierdut lumea ?i lumea pe noi, nu-i a?a Tristan, iubitule? — Iubito, când te am cu mine, ce s? mai îmi trebuiasc?? Dac? lumea toat? ar fi într-acest loc cu noi, eu nu te-a? vedea decât pe tine.

O, my God! I must lose you, friend!

History repeats itself, but the special call of an art which has passed away is never reproduced. It is as utterly gone out of the world as the song of a destroyed wild bird.

Is this what makes people old, then? Not age, or decrepitude, but grief?

Grief shouts, Sorrow remains calm.

She passed the needle to the doctor And for once I knew what to do And held her head against mine. I cleaved to that smell And lied into her ear That it would be all right. The veterinarian, whom I'd fought About when to do this thing Said through tears That it would only take a few minutes As if that were not a long time But there was no cry or growl, Only the weight of her in my arms, And then on the world. - Bruce Weigl in the poem May

In France, the war created 600,000 widows and left nearly one million children fatherless. In England three men were killed in World War I for every man killed in World War II.

tens of thousands of women to spinsterhood. In the American Expeditionary Forces, the 26,000 men killed in the Meuse-Argonne represented the greatest loss in a single battle to that point in the nation's history.

The railroad car stood in the midst of French villages that the war had effaced from the earth. The Germans were confronting an Allied leader who had learned of the death in battle of his only son and his daughter's husband in a single day. Foch remained cold to all entreaties, reflecting not only his own fixedness but orders from his equally unforgiving superior, Prime Minister Clemenceau.

It doesn't make a damned bit of difference who wins the war to someone who's dead.

Then she took the heart and liver of the little girl, and she stewed them and brought them into the house for supper. The husband tasted them and shook his head. He said they tasted very strangely. She gave some to the little boy, but he would not eat. She tried to force him, but he refused, and ran out into the garden, and took up his little sister, and put her in a box, and buried the box under a rose-tree; and every day he went to the tree and wept, till his tears ran down on the box.

I've never believed in seeking perfection at the risk of losing everything.

He was the first young man Alex had met since he arrived, all the others buried or missing, irretrievable. Then a few dragging steps and Alex saw why: a Goebbels clubfoot had kept him out of war.

I died at Lake Silencio and all my wife got me was this lousy T-shirt.

Does the body remember? When the mind has forgotten?…And if dreams unmask our longings, as the wise have claimed since the Greeks, why is it that the dead are so often silent when we dream them? Don't we want them to speak? What would they say?

All the evil in the world, it comes from shattered love. [Ellen Terry, to Bram Stoker]

Oh so maddening, how memory works, or doesn't work, when you are old. Every square in a counterpane you owned when you were five, you remember the sequence, the colours. But then people were so important to you, and now even their names are melted away.

I felt shame - I see this clearly, now - at the instinctive recognition in myself of an awful enfeebling fatalism, a sense that the great outcomes were but randomly connected to our endeavors, that life was beyond mending, that love was loss, that nothing worth saying was sayable, that dullness was general, that disintegration was irresistible.

Just because our political heroes were murdered does not mean that the dream does not still live, buried deep in our broken hearts.

Uno se pierde en la vida diaria como si entrara en un bosque. Se encuentra gente, se la pierde de nuevo, como los árboles pierden sus hojas.