Quotes About Loss

Michael Owen's wonder goal against Argentina in 1998 was one defining memory, and as a Sunderland supporter, I remember crying my eyes out after they lost that play-off final against Charlton. Much as that hurt, it made me realise how much I wanted to play the game.

I don't think I will fully appreciate it until I have retired. My dad will ring me after a game and if we've lost it's the end of the world for me but he will say: 'I don't think you realise - you are captain of West Ham, you grew up supporting the club.'

Anyone who loses a parent, you have to find those parts of yourself that your parent held true in themselves, especially if they're supportive parents.

I suppose I often think of my writing as quite impersonal. But it turned out, when my father died, writing was exactly what I wanted to do.

Anyone who has lost a child will tell you that they don't recover their sense of endless possibility. Some people hide that well. But after a certain age, almost everyone is carrying something like that around, I suppose.

Heath Ledger was supposed to put our album on what would have been a new record label. I still feel a little dead after losing him.

After two rounds of chemo, I've started to notice, slowly, but surely, my hair has started to appear more regularly in my shower drain, sink drain, pillowcase and comb.

My father died in France, and my sisters and I went over with my mum to bring back his body. I remember going to the funeral parlour in France and being given a laminated menu of coffins, and thinking, surely there is an ice cream at the back of here!

The surgery I got is called gastric sleeve.

From the moment my dad died, from the moment I found out there was the possibility of his dying, there were many surprises - years after, minutes after. The moments I was okay were as surprising as the ones that I wasn't. Making it through the eulogy without losing it. And then the guilt I felt about it. Surprise!

I lost a lot. It was almost like I was a retired player where I lost all of my athleticism. I lost everything. Being able to get it back, step by step, little bit at a time, it was like surprising myself.

It's really hard when a celebrity dies out of nowhere, 'cause it's very shocking... surreal.

Losing produces a weird reaction in me. I surrender all sense of perspective. It's ridiculous, really. All this over a football match.

I'll never get used to living without Mo, but the painful things that surround what happened to him aren't so painful any more-not so raw or so new.

Death is a kind of nakedness, a kind of indecency, a kind of faux pas. Unless we have known the dead person well enough to experience true loss, or unless we have wronged the dead person enough to experience guilt, the only emotion we can experience is embarrassment.

And the terrible thing, the terrible thing is, but the good thing too, the saving grace, is that if something happened to one of us--excuse me for saying this--but if something happened to one of us tomorrow, I think the other one, the other person, would grieve for a while, you know, but then the surviving party would go out and love again, have someone else soon enough. All this, all of this love we're talking about, it would just be a memory. Maybe not even a memory.

She won't give him back his look.

Your face, your mouth, your shoulder inconceivable to me now! Where did they go? It's like I dreamed them. The stones we brought home from the beach lie face up on the windowsill, cooling. Come home. Do you hear? My lungs are thick with the smoke of your absence.

Sai bene che non sogno. Ma ieri notte ho sognato che assistevamo a un funerale nel mare. All'inizio ero attonito. Poi pieno di rimpianti. Ma tu m'hai sfiorato un braccio e hai detto: "no, va tutto bene. Era molto vecchia, e poi lui l'ha amata tutta la vita

Grief Woke up early this morning and from my bed looked far across the Strait to see a small boat moving through the choppy water, a single running light on. Remembered my friend who used to shout his dead wife's name from hilltops around Perugia. Who set a plate for her at his simple table long after she was gone. And opened the windows so she could have fresh air. Such display I found embarrassing. So did his other friends. I couldn't see it. Not until this morning.

There were things he wanted to say, grieving things, consoling things, things like that.

I crack the other egg. Surely we have diminished one another.

I don't want to talk to anybody. Actually, I'd talk to Molly, if I could, but I can't any longer — she's somebody else now. She isn't Molly any more. But — what can I say? — I'm somebody else, too.

All this, all of this love we're talking about, it would just be a memory. Maybe not even a memory