Quotes About Loss

It says, loving doesn't change just because someone isn't there, or because time gets in the way, or even death. It's always with you, keeping you safe, it won't ever leave you.

No, he didn't win," Great-Uncle Merry said, and even in the clear afternoon sunshine he seemed with every word to become more remote, as ancient as the rock behind him and the old world of which he spoke.

It's extremely frustrating when you've worked hard to get to the point of confrontation, but one or both of your parents are dead.

The shock of a sudden death, Joan Didion attests, is "obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind.

To an avuncular visitor who says, "I want to commend you on your attitude toward your impending situation," I fantasize a non-Buddhist response, "At least I have a life to lose, loser.

I do not believe I have ever again slept so well as I did that night in the inn at Crythin Gifford. For I see that then I was still all in a state of innocence, but that innocence, once lost, is lost forever.

everything had changed, and she had crumpled in front of me, and become wholly broken and lost...

He supposed that was the problem. That he'd gotten over loving Katie, but he'd never recovered from losing their friendship.

The cattle are restless from the water," he told them. "Stay alert. Given the choice between losing one of them and losing one of you, I want you to save yourself." "Good to know," Maya muttered from Phoebe's left. "What if it's the choice between me and two steers?" Zane either didn't hear her or ignored her.

American flag appeared on the screen. "Between 2001 and 2012, nearly sixty-five hundred American soldiers were killed in Iraq and Afghanistan. During that same period of time—" the screen shifted to the face of a battered woman clutching two small children "—almost twelve thousand women were murdered by their husbands, boyfriends or a former partner. Even now, three women are murdered every single day by the man who claims to love them.

To have lost her husband, faced a terminal illness, then to have gone through transplant surgery and come out the other side still believing in love was amazing.

pound mutt that doesn't belong in a hospital." "Oh." Mrs. Riley's eyes filled with tears. "We had a dog. A small Yorkie. She died a few months ago. I know Kalinda misses her terribly. I remember reading something about hospitals using therapy dogs. Do you think that would help?" She was a mother who loved her

There was no quiet, delicate crying, only body-wrenching sobs that clawed at her soul and left her with nothing but a sense of emptiness that she was afraid would never go away.

When she'd heard the news on the phone it had torn a hole in her and she went immediately hard and did not cry. If she let herself feel, the part of her that was left would be riddled wigth holes and there'd be nothing left. She had not, since then, shed a tear. Her body shut down; to allow feeling would sink her

So she attended classes which were throughly altered now, as. if a water wash had brushed over everything, streaking lines, and pulling the color out. Grief turned out to be slow moving. Situations which at another time would be anxious-making were far less so now. What did anything matter? What could possibly be worrisome. She would therefore, have been less nervous than usual to walk with Mr. Tower to his car.

The world we made together is gone now. Silk and cinnamon do not bring it back to me as clearly as the smell of potatoes frying with onions, or the purr of a cat, or the feel of a knot beneath my fingers. And that in itself is proof of how the voyage changed me, who set out only wanting to see anything new and different.

Ours is a culture based on excess, on overproduction; the result is a steady loss of sharpness in our sensory experience. All the conditions of modern life--its material plenitude, its sheer crowdedness--conjoin to dull our sensory faculties.

People robbed of their past seem to make the most fervent picture takers, at home and abroad.

Esto es lo que hace la guerra. Y aquello es lo que hace, también. La guerra rasga, desgarra. La guerra rompe, destripa. La guerra abrasa. La guerra desmembra. La guerra arruina.

And it is in this gap between resemblance and identity that nostalgic desire arises. The nostalgic is enamored of distance, not of the referent itself. Nostalgia cannot be sustained without loss.

At some times in our lives, our passion makes us perpetrators of hurt and loss. At other times we are the ones who are hurt—all in the name of art. Sometimes we get what we want. Sometimes we pay for another to get what he or she wants.

I hate when people dismiss the loss of an object because "it's just a thing." Things are important. They give comfort, shelter, style, identity. The sum total of your things is a road map of your life. They show where you've been, what you accomplished, who you loved, who loved you back. They are an expression of who you are. You can learn a lot about a person by their things. Material things are not what's most important in life, of course!

It's well known by psychologists and anyone with a beating heart that the pain of losing something you're told is already yours is far greater than the pain of not getting something you wish for in the abstract.

Grief is savage, like love. I think maybe it's the same thing as love? It's love that is trapped inside you, a bird that can't spread its wings so it flaps violently in protest until it's exhausted and broken and utterly without hope. No, grief is not sadness. It's love that is desperately, urgently lost, an intense longing that pools in your lungs and balls up in your throat, so that when you try to talk it just pours out of you like sludge.