Quotes About Heartache

I read as much poetry as time allows and circumstance dictates: No heartache can pass without a little Dorothy Parker, no thunderstorm without W. H. Auden, no sleepless night without W. B. Yeats.

All love is unrequited. All of it.

He could almost hear the wail of pain that went up from his heart. It was a sharp terrible personal pain the kind of pain that comes only when someone to whom you have never done any harm turns on you and says goodbye goodbye forever without any reason for doing it. Without any reason at all.

They died crying in their minds like little babies. They forgot the thing they were fighting for the thing they were dying for. They thought about things a man can understand. They died yearning for the face of a friend. They died whimpering for the voice of a mother a father a wife a child. They died with their hearts sick for one more look at the place where they were born please god just one more look.

The worst criminals on earth are those who toy with love.

This was what real grief felt like—she had never truly felt it before. All the times she had been sad, all the times she had wept in her life, all the glooms and melancholies were merely moods, mere passing whims. Grief was a different thing altogether.

We brats bear the hurt of war. We insulate it and keep it warm. Our bodies and souls are receptacles of an unimaginable heartache. We have a way of looking out at the world from behind the walls of an emotional castle built to protect a lonely treasure.

But you can't escape from heartache. That's the rub. It always finds a way back.

Heartache is the life force of my people, the agent that ripples eternity and causes history to arc into big crashing waves. Heartache may pass and disappear. Heartache is still there, it is merely invisible, plotting. Heartache is the constant. Heartache is the through line, the central core on which we all radiate, the agent of change. Heartache can neither be created nor destroyed, only transmuted. Heartache is the score and the game; heartache is our eternal currency.

The Potomac had taken away Linda and the boys. The Rio Negro had given him Daniela. One river had swallowed his heart; another river, halfway around the world, had gifted it back. A different heart, beaten up, scarred, but a beating heart at least.

She could live without her past. She was better off without her past. But Ian couldn't live without his heart.

Sir Graham looked directly at Gwyneth. "Lord Morninghall is semiconscious and out of his head." Then, softly: "But it is your name that he's calling." Gwyneth's mouth fell open and she felt a direct stab of pain to her heart. In confusion she looked from the admiral to the chaplain. "My name?" "Yes. Over and over again. He will not stop.

The Queen died. The King died." "The Queen died. And the King died of a broken heart." The first line was fact. The second line was a story. It placed the facts in context, added emotion and made us connect to it by making it memorable.

I'm telling you why we broke up, Ed. I'm writing this letter, the whole truth of why it happened. And the truth is that I goddamn loved you so much.

It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, but if one more person said that to her, Jodi swore she was going to lose it.

If he never loved her the way she loved him, it was going to be okay. It was truly better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Her heart would survive this, and would be richer for having known him.

Have you ever loved anyone?" "You mean besides my mum?" Luke was dumbfounded as he stared at Jack. He knew his friend's story. "She sold you when you were five." Jack shrugged. "Doesn't mean I didn't love her. Just means she didn't love me.

Oh, Papa, I've done something terribly silly. I've fallen in love with someone, and he loves another. The strange thing is, as much as it hurts, I only want him to be happy. And if she'll make him happy, I want him to have her.

in time, the pain from a phisical beating would recede, heal, and scar, but wounds inflicted to the heart left scars that never stopped hurting

You'd think wouldn't hurt a little one, but the pain is a great as if they'd been with you all your life. You can't remember what it was like before they touched your heart and you can never forget them

Enough of little lives led by little people, crumpling under the weight of stress. And enough of empty ambition masquerading as something grand yet marked by the numbing effects of a vacant heart.

Just remember, honey, you only have one heart.

Hope offered, then denied. A particular cruelty.

Good hearts get hurt. Good hearts get broken, Armand. And then they lash out.