Quotes About Loss

The internet has eliminated so much wonder and romance.

I know. Life isn't fair. But just once, I wanted love to be fair. I did everything right. Everything. And now I'm losing you, aren't I?

say and the problem with books is that they end. They seduce you. They spread their legs to you and pull you inside. And you go deep and leave your possessions and your ties to the world at the door and you like it inside and you don't want for your possessions or your ties and then, the book evaporates. You turn the page and there is nothing

Death is just so final, you know? He's gone. There's no coming back. He's gone.

The world fell out of love with love at some point

Why doesn't he get over it already? But that was the secret, wasn't it? You never got over what you lost. You always carried it with you, stitched to you like Peter Pan's shadow. And you never wanted to get over it, because who wanted to forget a time that had been so important? No, the truth was, you wanted to remember it always.

Death made you look differently at the people you loved. Their real selves weren't there to contradict your beliefs about them. The dead became a whole other person.

Maybe love didn't die even when a person did, but that didn't mean there might not be room for someone else in your heart.

You could love many people in your life. Maybe love didn't die even when a person did, but that didn't mean there might not be room for someone else in your heart.

Looking at me, one would think that I'm alive…I'm not alive. I died in Auschwitz, but no one knows it'. (Moorehead, 2011, 317)

Many years later, Martha revisited the same Caribbean islands. She found yachts and rubber Zodiac dinghies, plastic bottles on the seabed, casinos and boutiques in the sleepy ports, and great bald patches of land, stripped for development, where once all had been jungle and green. It was, she wrote sadly, a world lost. Returning

Even when faced with unspeakable loss, Marie Antoinette tackled her difficulties as she always had - by choosing costumes that emphasized her resilience of spirit.

The tanks dug ladders in the earth no one was able to climb In every war someone puts a cigarette in the corpse's mouth And the corpse The corpse is never mentioned In the hours before his empty body was found It was this, this life that he longed for, this that he wrote of desiring, Yet this life leaves out everything for which he lived

After beating Lorca with their rifle butts and calling him a faggot, they filled him with bullets. The grave, sought by many, has never been found.

She began reciting something that sounded almost like litany: Aguilares, Padre Grande, Padre Navarro, aquí en San Salvador y en Aguilares y campesinos, "hundreds, three hundreds, all dead, even niños dead.

Everyone who loves risks losing their heart every minute of every day.

But will anyone again look at that tree, read that poem, love a dog in quite my way? I am a particular and, despite the commonness of all people, a unique person in the way I perceive and think and appreciate, and I am sad that this particularity shall before too long be gone. This is not arrogance; it is the simple truth, known to anyone who has loved a person dead in the fullness of her life: what we miss is the particularity, that unique voice. [pp. 184-185]

Josh is loving and kind, and he knows me better than anyone. He knows the real me, and he likes me for who I am. Josh is...Josh. And now he's gone. I press my wet face into my pillow. This is what heartbreak feels like.

What had happened to our love? Somehow it had faded, or worn out, or simply withered away.

The tragedy of puppies, taken from their families, all of them, never to see each other again. This is the sadness we inflict on the beasts we love.

It occurs to me for the first time that Lorelei is getting older—she must be eight years old by now—and that I may not have unlimited time to conduct my research. Or to enjoy the quiet pleasure of her company. I will lose her someday, that much is certain, and it makes me ache to think of it. But, as all dog owners must, I put the thought quickly out of my mind.

I remember my wife in white.' It just made people weep to hear it...Everybody just thought it was the saddest sentence that was ever written. And it didn't matter if I never wrote another word. This one sentence had put an end to the need for any future sentences. I had said it all.

I wake up in that state of grief when you can tell you've been mourning even in your sleep.

I'm here!" I said..."I'm read to go home!" As if they couldn't see me. As if I couldn't remember what it had been like, fluttering next to someone's ear and whispering into it. How the whole earth was like a musical instrument that we could play effortlessly. ...I could not fly. My sister was not there. My heart was broken.