Quotes About Loss

It will never happen for them, but somehow he's content in knowing that in some other place and time it would have. He holds her for ten seconds, twenty. Thirty. Then she slips away, and he returns to the dining hall. In a few minutes he hears her playing, the strains of her music pouring forth, filling Happy Jack with the upbeat, pulse-pounding sound track of the damned.

Only stories of love pass through our post-mortal filter, yet even then, we are baffled by the intensity of longing and loss that threatens those mortal tales of love.

Her husband of more than ninety years was gleaned five years prior. Now she wanted to be with him, wherever he was, and if he was nowhere, then at least they would be nowhere together.

Los mortales fantaseaban con que el amor era eterno y su pérdida, inimaginable. Ahora sabemos que ninguno de los dos supuestos era cierto. El amor siguió siendo mortal, mientras que nosotros nos hicimos eternos.

Mortals fantasized that love was eternal and its loss unimaginable. Now we know that neither is true. Love remained mortal, while we became eternal

Her appetite was a casualty of the day.

Today I am determined to rejoice in what we've gained, rather than what was lost. Both in the world, and personally.

You have been dead for more than three years.

He had to ask, because he knew he wasn't Rowan Damisch anymore—not just because his fake ID said "Ronald Daniels," but because the boy he had once been had died a sad and painful death during his apprenticeship. The child in him had been successfully purged. Did anyone mourn that child? he wondered.

No one says a word. It's like a moment of silence for the many kids lost to that great unwinding machine. The industry, as Sonia had called it. A mill of commerce trafficking in flesh, working outside the realm of ethics yet within the law and within the complete consent of society.

He didn't go out with the garbage," Scythe Rand said. "I took care of it myself, then spread his ashes in a field of wild bluebonnets. Just saying.

He cannot deny how much he loves her - and the pain of that longing is enough to make him know that he lives. That he is. For how could he feel such anguish if he had no soul? Yet in many ways he feels as if she took his soul with her when she left.

There was an odd justice to it. Not so much live-by-the-blade/die-by-the-blade; it was more becoming the blade, and losing oneself. Scythe Faraday had once told him and Citra that they were called scythes rather than reapers, because they were not the ones who killed; they were merely the tool that society used to bring fair-handed death to the world. But once you're the weapon, you're nothing more than a tool for someone else to wield.

All her hopes of a future have been torn away from her again-- and having those hopes, even briefly, makes this far more painful than not having had them at all.

Divorce really stinks. It's like going to the store and buying clothes, wearing them for years and years, then returning them and asking for your money back...A store won't buy back a pair of used jeans, so how come people can trade each other in, like it was nothing? If your only pair of jeans is torn, you get a needle and some thread, and you sew them up, right?

She can't recall whether these were the colors of the pro-life or pro-choice forces, but then, it doesn't really matter. Both sides lost.

We are not the same beings we once were. Consider our inability to grasp literature and most entertainment from the mortal age. To us, the things that stirred mortal human emotions are incomprehensible. Only stories of love pass through our post-mortal filter, yet even then, we are baffled by the intensity of longing and loss that threatens those mortal tales of love.

Faith is an unfortunate casualty of immortality.

Do not look for my heart any more; the beasts have eaten it.

The saddest thing is that every love has an unhappy ending, and all the more unhappy in proportion to how divinely it began, with what wings it first took flight.

Seek not my heart; the beasts have eaten it

The old Paris is no more (the form of a city changes faster, alas! than a mortal's heart).

A soul is a thing so impalpable, so often useless and sometimes such a nuisance, that the loss of it disturbed me less than if I had lost my visiting card while taking a walk.

Ô douleur! ô douleur! Le Temps mange la vie, Et l'obscur Ennemi qui nous range le coeur Du sang que nous perdons croît et se fortifie!