Quotes About Loss

She feels a great pang of loss, an unexpected welling of sorrow mixed with confusion.

She felt the pain of his loss inside her like a savage hook. She wanted to reach into him and take it out, as though it were shrapnel. But the pain was old to him, and somehow it had become a part of him. He could bear it and speak of it. It had shaped him; he had accommodated it. He had loved and he had lost and it had made him who he was.

Have you ever been in love?" "Colin. For the love of God." "I have," he said bluntly. "And when you lose love, it tears a hole out of you. The pain can be gruesome. I thought I lost Madeline once, and I swear for a few days I thought I might never be whole again." "Perhaps you should write a poem about it. Add another verse to your song.

One of heartbreak's chief qualities seemed to be its ability to distort time and distances.

For what it's worth . . . I don't think anyone you love is ever truly gone. I do very much feel their absence . . . but I also feel their presence all the time, in a new way. In some ways they're with me now more than ever. I don't know if that makes sense.

but the pain was old to him, and somehow it had become a part of him. He could bear it and speak of it. It had shaped him; he had accomodated it. He had loved abd he had lost and it had made him who he was.

You wagered you could indulge passion and receive trust and honor in return, and lost.

If he'd been able to imagine it, perhaps he could have saved himself from what was to come. A grief that would reshape his life the way a tsunami reshaped a coastline.

Love.' What a wilderness of pain, of yearning, of loss could be contained in that word. Patient and kind nonsense, is how Lady Fennimore had put it. Love wasn't for cowards; he wondered if it was for the wise. He supposed love itself made you stupid at first, or no one, no one would ever fall in love at all.

She didn't want to need anything, particularly something—or someone—she quite simply couldn't have. Too much had been taken from her already, and she'd had enough of accommodating pain, of straightening her spine, of soldiering on

It's a shame you know, he called over his shoulder. What's a shame? Duncan asked. That I didn't capture her first. Duncan smiled. Nay, Edmond, it was a blessing. God's truth, I would have taken her from you.

A barren woman served no purpose in this kingdom. Her very reason for existing had been snatched away.

Judaism offered no Shivah for lost love. There was no Kaddish to say, no candle to burn...no injunction against listening to music or going to work.

It's no small matter to cross an ocean,Chagall said. More can be lost than canvas and paint. An artist must bear witness, Monsieur Fry. He cannot turn away, even if he wished to. An artist cannot bear witness if he's dead.

He grieved too, Klara said, for the loss of a certain idea of himself.

Life, oblivious to his grief, continued

Later, your mother says, Didn't everything used to have a name?

A memory from before: his sister arriving home from school with her new jump rope trailing behind her on the sidewalk. They let me turn the handle, she said, but they wouldn't let me jump. She had cut the rope up into tiny pieces and tossed them into the ivy and sworn she would never jump rope again.

Many of us had lost everything and left saying nothing at all. All of us left wearing white numbered identification tags tied to our collars and lapels.

Niekas nelaimi karo.Visi pralaimi

Maybe the things she loved most weren't meant to be permanent. Maybe the fact that they existed was enough.

She was a creature of the deep, and there she must return, or perish. Toby understood that, but it hardly helped him. For all he had of her was his memory, where he held every moment, every single moment that she had been his. That was all he had, to keep out the loneliness.

It was quiet; so quiet. Didn't these people know how to grieve for a good man? Didn't they know how to weep, and scream with rage, and curse the powers of darkness in their sorrow? Didn't they know how to hold one another, and dry one another's tears, and tell tales of the things he had done, and of what he had been, to see him safe on his way? Where were the great fires, and the toasts in strong ale, and the scent of burning juniper?

The day before you died was the longest, slowest day ever. It gave you more time than you could possibly want to contemplate all the things you'd got wrong, the chances you'd missed, the errors you'd made. It was long enough to convince the most hopeful person that there was no point in anything.