Quotes About Loss

Broome introduced Flynn to Erin. Erin nodded and then put her head back down. Erin had never been good with the families of victims. "They're broken," Erin had told him before. Broome looked now into Flynn's eyes and thought "shattered" was more accurate. "Broken" suggested something clean and all the way through and fixable. But what happened to them was messier, more abstract, filled with shards and no hope of recovery.

Would it be too hackneyed to wonder where it all went so wrong? Kitty's

They stood there, the two of them—the mother of a dead boy holding firm to the boy who had killed him.

She's dying, Win. Cancer. She has maybe a week or two." "I know." Myron sat back. His throat felt dry. "Is that the entire message?" "She wanted you to know that it's your last chance to talk to her," Myron said. "Well, yes, that's true. It would be very difficult for us to chat after she's dead." Myron

They are stories I wrote because my friends are gone, a lot of them, and if you can't be angry about it, how the hell much did you care to begin with?

I know that my true friend will appear after my death, and my sweetheart died before I was born.

could hear AM draw in his breath. His toys had been taken from him. Three of them were dead, could not be revived. He could keep us alive, by his strength and talent, but he was not God. He could not bring them back.

Since ideology, particularly in it's shallower versions, is peculiarly destructive of the capacity to apprehend and appreciate irony, I suggest that the recovery of the ironic might be our fifth principle for the restoration of reading. ... But with this principle, I am close to despair, since you can no more teach someone to be ironic than you can instruct them to become solitary. And yet the loss of irony is the death of reading, and of what had been civilized in our natures.

War is a crime. Ask the infantry and ask the dead. —ERNEST HEMINGWAY

this act is engraved in my mind deeper than any other experience in my two tours in Vietnam. A huge black enlisted man, clad only in shorts and boots, hands bigger than dinner plates, reached into my helicopter to pick up one of the dead white soldiers. He had tears streaming down his face and he tenderly cradled that dead soldier to his chest as he walked slowly from the aircraft to the medical station.

Smith recalls: "Within a span of perhaps twenty minutes everyone around me was dead or wounded, except me.

Bernard Fall's Street Without Joy and

Still, their affection for each other remained strong: while Baker was serving in Washington, the Lincolns honored him by naming their second-born son for the congressman. (Edward Baker Lincoln died tragically at age three in 1850.) When Baker finished his term, he dutifully handed off his House seat to Lincoln.

She held him spellbound," he went on, then let out a ragged breath. "So he went to his death."[

Miss Jean Louise, stand up. Your father's passin'.

I never loved reading until I feared I would lose it. One does not love breathing.

Madam, my father has left me flopping like a flounder at low tide and you say what's the matter.

Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read

Boo and I walked up the steps to the porch. His fingers found the doorknob. He gently released my hand, opened the door, enter inside, and shut the door behind him. I never saw him again.

I'll never forgive you for what you did to me. You cheated me, you've driven me out of my home and now I'm in a no-man's-land but good—there's no place for me any more in Maycomb, and I'll never be entirely at home anywhere else.

Summer, and he watched his children's heart break.

Just about that time, Jean Louise's brother dropped dead in his tracks one day, and after the nightmare of that was over, Atticus, who had always thought of leaving his practice to his son, looked around for another young man. It was natural for him to engage Henry, and in due course Henry became Atticus's legman, his eyes, and his hands. Henry had always respected Atticus Finch; soon it melded to affection and Henry regarded him as a father.

The son—deceased's under that tree, doctor, just inside the schoolyard.

And so they went, down the row of laughing women, around the diningroom, refilling coffee cups, dishing out goodies as though their only regret was the temporary domestic disaster of losing Calpurnia.