Quotes About Loss

I couldn't believe this. My first very good friend had run off to Japan and never written me and now my second very good friend had stolen my cat.

It takes me longer than an instant to get over somebody.

It's a little hard not to worry when my best friend keeps on dying.

Then, with an enormous rush of meadow-filled wind, the green candle went out, and my best friend died.

Love is what remains when everything else is gone.

In the sea of grief, there were islands of grace, moments in time when one could remember what was left rather than all that had been lost.

To lose love is a terrible thing. But to turn away from it is unbearable. Will you spend the rest of your life replaying it in your head? Wondering if you walked away too soon or too easily? Or if you'll ever love anyone that deeply again?

You will always miss her. There will be days - even years from now - when the missing will be so sharp it will take your breath away. But there will be good days, too, months and years of them. In one way or another you'll be searching for her all your life.

know now what matters, and it is not what I have lost. It is my memories. Wounds heal. Love lasts.

To those who are here, those who are gone, and those who are lost.

It's scary that people can just stop loving you, you know?

Jude remembered this pain. Every woman had felt some version of it: the end of first love. It was when you learned, for good and always, that love could be impermanent.

There was a pain that came with constant disapproval; a sense of having lost something unnamed, unknown. Elsa had survived it by being quiet, by not demanding or seeking attention, by accepting that she was loved, but unliked.

No mother. Two small words, and yet within them lay a bottomless well of pain and loss, a ceaseless mourning for touches that were never received and words of wisdom that were never spoken. No single word was big enough to adequately describe the loss of your mother.

I would not love him again. Not if I had known how it would feel to live with a broken heart.

It felt as if she were bleeding - but it wasn't blood that leaked out of her, not something that could be easily transfused. Instead she was losing her dreams.

Lately, though, I find myself thinking about the war and my past, about the people I lost. Lost. It makes it sound as if I misplaced my loved ones; perhaps I left them where they don't belong and turned away, too confused to retrace my steps. They are not lost. Nor are they in a better place. They are gone. As I approach the end of my years, I know that grief, like regret, settles into our DNA and remains forever a part of us.

The lights are going out all over Europe; We shall not see them lit again in our lifetime. —SIR EDWARD GREY, ON WORLD WAR I

Tragedy was like that, a razor that sliced through time, severing the now from the before, incising the what-might-have-been from reality as cleanly as any surgeon's blade.

In time, his grief had turned to anger and then drifted toward sorrow, and now, finally, it had settled into a lingering sadness that was a part of him, not the whole.

Lost is lost; it's when you want someone to hold you but there is no one who can. Lost is alone, even when people are all around you.

She was crying for it all at last--for the pain and loss and fear and anger, for the war and what it had done to her and to all of them, for the knowledge of evil she could never shake, for the horror of where she'd been and what she'd done to survive.

it was only possible to live without love when you'd never known it.

She had this terrible, irrational fear that if she let go of him she would never touch him again and the thought of that was paralyzing.