Quotes About Loss

Westlife earnt millions. We were on the 'Irish Times' Rich List. And then... I'm not!

Seek ye first the good things of the mind, and the rest will either be supplied or its loss will not be felt.

I've forgotten what it's like to remember. I've lost the mindless confidence that a moment, an idea, a thought will be there for me later, the bravado of breezing through experience in the certainty that it will become part of my self, part of my story.

I think it is really sad that when people lose their homes they kind of lose their minds too.

I lived the street life for a minute; I lost a lot of friends.

We are afraid of death, we are afraid of separation, and we are afraid of nothingness.

Time destroys everything we do, whatever it is.

The essential elements of a person come to light only when we must regard him as lost to us, when everything he has done seems to have been a taking leave of us. Suddenly the true nature of everything about him that was merely preparation for his ultimate death becomes truly visible.

Wenn wir einen geliebten Menschen verlieren, behalten wir doch immer ein Kleidungsstück von ihm wenigstens solange wir den Geruch des Verlorenen noch an ihm wahrnehmen können und tatsächlich bis in unserem Tod hinein, weil wir auch dann noch glauben, sein Geruch machte uns dieses Kleidungsstück gegenwärtig, wenn das auch längst nur mehr noch nichts ist als Einbildung.

When you have lost your closest human being everything seems empty to you, look wherever you like, everything is empty, and you look and look and you see that everything is really empty and, what is more, for ever, Reger said. And you realize that it was not those great minds and not those old masters which kept you alive for decades but that it was this one single person whom you loved more than anyone else.

Wertheimer was afraid of losing his unhappiness and killed himself for this and no other reason, I thought, with

But of course it was precisely this destruction process of my beloved Steinway that I had wanted.

We must, however, reflect on what is happening. It is an urgent matter, especially for those of us who still live in a meaningful, even a numinous, earth community. We have not spoken. Nor even have we seen clearly what is happening. The issue goes far beyond economics, or commerce, or poetics, or an evening of pleasantries as we look out over a scenic view. Something is happening beyond all this. We are losing splendind and intimate modes of divine presence. We are, perhaps, losing ourselves.

The thing about loss-of-innocence stories, the reason they hit so hard, is that they're so final. You can never go back.

She considers the past. She measures it and weighs it and holds it in her hand like a plum. The past is everything now, and she understands that this is what it means to be dying: You stop looking forward, instead living for moments that happened years before.

There are disappointments which wring us, and there are those which inflict a wound whose mark we bear to our graves. Such are so keen that no future gratification of the same desire can ever obliterate them: they become registered as a permanent loss of happiness.

She had learned the lesson of renunciation and was as familiar with the wreck of each day's wishes as with the diurnal setting of the sun.

To have lost is less disturbing than to wonder if we may possibly have won; and Eustacia could now, like other people at such a stage, take a standing-point outside herself, observe herself as a disinterested spectator, and think what a sport for Heaven this woman Eustacia was.

O, you have torn my life all to pieces... made me be what I prayed you in pity not to make me be again!

The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing alive enough to have strength to die. (from Neutral Tones)

Bygones would never be complete bygones till she was a bygone herself.

Here we suffer grief and pain, Here we meet to part again; In Heaven we part no more.

He had sunk from his modest elevation as pastoral king into the very slime pits of Siddim; but there was left to him a dignified calm he had never before known, and that indifference to fate which, though it often makes a villain of a man, is the basis of his sublimity when it does not. And thus the abasement had been exaltation, and the loss gain.

She went indoors in that peculiar state of misery which is not exactly grief, and which especially attends the dawnings of reason in the latter days of an ill-judged, transient love. To be conscious that the end of the dream is approaching, and yet has not absolutely come, is one of the most wearisome as well as the most curious stages along the course between the beginning of a passion and its end.