Quotes About Loss

Ah ! il était parti, le seul charme de sa vie, le seul espoir possible d'une félicité ! Comment n'avait-elle pas saisi ce bonheur-là, quand il se présentait ! Pourquoi ne l'avoir pas retenu à deux mains, à deux genoux, quand il voulait s'enfuir ? Et elle se maudit de n'avoir pas aimé Léon

The next day, for Emma, was funereal. Everything appeared to her shrouded in a black mist that hovered uncertainly over the surface of things, and grief plunged deep into her soul, moaning softly like the winter wind in an abandonded chateau. She sank into that kind of brooding which comes when you lose something forever, that lassitude you feel after every irreversible event, that pain you suffer when a habitual movement is interrupted, when a long-sustained vibration is suddenly broken off.

Era uno de esos sentimientos puros que en nada obstaculizan el disfrute de la existencia, que se fomentan porque son raros y cuya pérdida resultaría más triste que gozosa fuera su posesión.

She forgot the tune of the quadrilles; she no longer saw the liveries and appointments so distinctly; some details escaped her, but the regret remained with her.

El amor fue extinguiéndose poco a poco con la ausencia, bajo la costumbre se ahogó la pena; y aquel resplandor de incendio que teñía de púrpura su pálido cielo se cubrió de más sombra y se difuminó gradualmente

En temiz duygulardan biriydi bu. YaÅŸay???m?zda yeri olmayan, s?rf ender olduklar? için beslenen, yitirilmelerinin verdiÄŸi üzüntü, elde etmenin verdiÄŸi zevkten daha güçlü olan duygulard?...

perdre, quand, au contraire, elle avouait pour lui plus d'amour que jamais

Era uno de esos sentimientos puros que no estorban el ejercicio de la vida, que se cultivan porque son raros y cuya pérdida afligiría más de lo que alegraría su posesión.

Everything I see reminds me that in a few days I shall no longer see it... It's horrible... I shall see nothing more... nothing of what exists... the smallest objects that we use... glasses... plates... beds where people sleep so comfortably... carriages. It's so lovely, going out in a carriage, in the evening... How much I enjoyed all that!

On aime sa mère presque sans le savoir, et on ne prend conscience de toute la profondeur des racines de cet amour qu au moment de la séparation dernière.

Je voudrais arrêter le temps, arrêter l'heure. Mais elle va, elle va, elle passe, elle me prend de seconde en seconde un peu de moi pour le néant de demain. Et je ne revivrai jamais.

First my husband, then my parents died. After that I lost my two sisters. When death comes to someone's home it's as if it wants to get as much done as quickly as possible to save coming again for a long time.

A terrible event had broken him down. He had fallen madly in love with a young girl and married her in a kind of dreamlike ecstasy. After a year of unalloyed bliss and unexhausted passion, she had died suddenly of heart disease, no doubt killed by love itself.

Ice is for death and endings.

Tigana, let my memory of you be like a blade in my soul.

I will not say I am sorry, but I can tell you that I grieve.

A heartbreaking paradox: if only I can finish my work so that it will live. Yet if it is finished, completed , a part of me but departed from me, I lost it alive, living but separate; and if it does not leave me, it is incomplete, insufficient, and half-dead that I keep it.

No death, no doom, no anguish can arouse the surpassing despair which flows from a loss of identity. - Through the Gates of the Silver Key

When Randolph Carter was thirty he lost the key of the gate of dreams.

No death, no doom, no anguish can arouse the surpassing despair which flows from a loss of identity. Merging with nothingness is peaceful oblivion; but to be aware of existence and yet to know that one is no longer a definite being distinguished from other beings—that one no longer has a self—that is the nameless summit of agony and dread.

Chronophagos, the Devourer of Time, the Eater of Hours. What man remembereth even the hour of his death if the Chronophagos hath devoured it? —Nicephoros Attaliades, The Testament of Nightmares

For Arthur Munroe was dead. And on what remained of his chewed and gouged head there was no longer a face.

The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.

Death would be a boon if only it could blot out the memories.