Quotes About Loss

On account of disastrous losses in Wall Street that morning, I had determined to kill myself. I'm not of much account, any way, and I was desperate. I knew Uncle Robert would give me no money to repay my stock losses, for he always thought speculation no better than any other sort of gambling—and it isn't.

I was born in 1968, just eighteen months after my sister Chrisse and just one year after Dad passed the bar exam.

How horribly easy it is, he thinks now, breathing hard, watching the light retreat down the lane, to go from good to bad, from the dream to the memory, from what we want to all we've ever had.

And each time she did, he would cry the way he had cried at his wife's funeral, understanding at last that grief is not accountable, that it lives wherever it chooses, and that the worst thing is this: after the first time, one always has the memory of it.

I thought you might supply some tenderness I lacked But out of all the things I offered you took my breath away and now I want it back

You love them until they can't feel loved anymore, then you keep on loving them as if they were still there—as if there's been a reprieve at the last moment and fate has reversed itself. It

I think you get the picture. [1976] was a year that like all years, a lot of things happened in. People were on TV or in movies, they wrote songs that were liked more than other songs, while other people excelled at sports, and, as always, a lot of accomplished and famous people died.

To my father, Puff Daddy, who gave in part by taking away-thanks for the highest grade of absence available on Earth.

Losing people you love affects you. It is buried inside of you and becomes this big, deep hole of ache. It doesn't magically go away, even when you stop officially mourning.

We all live with our losses. We don't want to, but we can

What I have learned lately is that people deal with death in all sorts of ways. Some of us fight against it, doing everything we can to make it not true. Some of us lose our selves to grief. Some of us lose ourselves to anger.

A tiny part of my heart is so happy to see him safe and laughing, but the other part is a black pit that threatens to suck all of me into it. He is happy without me. He is laughing without me. But what about me?

I tucked the charred piece of her sweatshirt i had recovered into the back pocket of my jeans. I am glad she is with me now. Nick's anklet touches my skin. He is here too.

Some of us fight against it, doing everything we can to make it not true. Some of us lose ourselves to grief. Some of us lose ourselves to anger.

If i opened the door would he be there? would he smile at me and show his dimples? Would his cheeks be scruffy because he needed a shave? Would he hug me? all i've wanted all these monthes was for him to be alive. But i'd seen him on the floor. i'd seen him in the coffin. And you can feel it when someone has died, you can feel that his soul is gone, just gone, the emptiness of his body.

I bet all I had on a thing called love; guess in the end it wasn't enough. And it's hard to watch you leave right now; I'm gonna have to learn to let you go somehow.

The dead so soon grow cold." Funny that I got that off. It was years since I had read Oscar Wilde or any of his wise cracks.

How can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?

Wherever you look there's meanness and corruption. This room, this bottle of grape wine, these fruits in the basket, are all products of profit and loss. A fellow can't live without giving his passive acceptance to meanness. Somebody wears his tail to a frazzle for every mouthful we eat and every stitch we wear—and nobody seems to know. Everybody is blind, dumb, and blunt-headed—stupid and mean.

But tonight we danced with the drowned. And they were us.

The women's song was always the same, as monotonous as the beating of the waves against the beach: loss, loss. The conch offered them no enchantment. When they put their ear to it, all they heard was the echo of their mourning.

No, Captain Madsen, you don't regret having had a child simply because you lose it. Having a child isn't a deal you strike with life. As I said: a child is a gift. And what remains after a child is gone is the memory of the years it was allowed to live. Not its death.

Having a child isn't a deal you strike with life. As I said: a child is a gift. And what remains after a child is gone is the memory of the years it was allowed to live. Not its death

Our fathers were often away. But then sometimes, out of the blue, they'd be gone forever. Often away and gone forever: the two phrases marked the difference between having a living father and a dead one. It wasn't a big difference, but it was big enough to make us cry when no one was looking. One