Quotes About Loss

The rag rug That had heaped out onto your lap Slid to the floor. There it lay, coiled Between us. However it came, And wherever it found its tongue, its fang, its meaning, It survived our Eden.

And as abruptly She had gone on, hither, thither, Among the tables and vanished, leaving her words Heavier than the Cathedral, Bigger, darker, founded far deeper - My whole body taking their weight Like a newer or much older religion In me alone, to be carried Everywhere with me - deeper catacombs. And with a stronger God.

They only want to weep As after the huge wars Senseless huge wars Huge senseless weeping.

The song died in his mouth.

It forgot its wild roots Its earth-song In cement and the drum-song of looms.

I saw that it was all over, put away in a box like a doll no longer cared for, the magical intimacy of our childhood together

William Saroyan wrote a great play on this theme, that purity of heart is the one success worth having. In the time of your life--live! That time is short and it doesn't return again. It is slipping away while I write this and while you read it, and the monosyllable of the clock is Loss, loss, loss, unless you devote your heart to its opposition.

Well, sooner or later, at some point in your life, the thing that you lived for is lost or abandoned, and then ... you die, or find something else.

Most people's lives—what are they but trails of debris, each day more debris, more debris, long, long trails of debris with nothing to clean it all up but, finally, death.

Chance, you've gone past something you couldn't afford to go past; your time, your youth, you've passed it. It's all you had and you've had it.

It really is more difficult when you're older. You're blessed because you had the chance to know them, but the pain of the loss is more intense.

But what was

It's better to have no father at all than to have one such as yours, Gareth...I'm so sorry.

He tells them he and his wife are keeping the baby, because it's the last link to their little girl or some cowpuckie like that.

I don't believe in God, but I miss him.

Sometimes I think the purpose of life is to reconcile us to its eventual loss by wearing us down, by proving, however long it takes, that life isn't all it's cracked up to be.

on grief) And you do come out of it, that's true. After a year, after five. But you don't come out of it like a train coming out of a tunnel, bursting through the downs into sunshine and that swift, rattling descent to the Channel; you come out of it as a gull comes out of an oil-slick. You are tarred and feathered for life.

The price of great love is great misery when one of you dies.

When grief is becoming, it is also suspect.

Only those who are bereaved of all joy in this present world may take refuge in the shadows of the past.

She let him go once. Every day demands that she release him over and over again.

She glances back before stepping into the alley, and she catches her grandfather looking at her the way he does sometimes--as if she's already gone, as if he's practicing sorrow.

But she's still afraid that the more she misses him--his face, his skin, the way he looked at her--and the more hope she has that she'll see him again, the more she has to lose.

Strange, how death had a way of turning a table upside down in an instant. It swept away all the dust that covered treasures, blew the fog from one's view, knocked away facades.