Quotes About Emptiness

she was left with the warmth of the words from books now ash.

though her legs had given way. Loss was like that, Gamache knew. You didn't just lose a loved one. You lost your heart, your memories, your laughter, your brain and it even took your bones. Eventually it all came back,

They'd crossed over to that continent where grieving parents lived. It looked the same as the rest of the world, but wasn't. Colors bled pale. Music was just notes. Books no longer transported or comforted, not fully. Never again. Food was nutrition, little more. Breaths were sighs.

She closed her eyes and felt him inside her skin. Where he was vibrant and smart and irreverent and loving. She saw his smile, heard his laugh. Felt his hands. Felt his body. Now he was gone. But he hadn't left. And she sometimes wondered if that was him, beating on her heart. And she wondered what would happen if he stopped. Every night she came here. Parked. And stared at the window. Hoping to see some sign of life.

Clara rocked back and forth, back and forth, cradling her loss. Earlier in the day she'd felt someone had scooped her heart and her brain right out of her body. Now they were back, but they were broken. Her brain jumped madly about the place, but always back to that one scorched spot.

The old Hadley house was abandoned now. Had been empty for months. But Peter knew it wasn't empty. For one thing he'd left part of himself in it. Not a hand or a nose or a foot, thank God. But things that had no substance but fantastic weight. He'd left his hope there, and trust. He'd left his faith there too. What little he had, he'd lost. There. Peter

But Peter knew it wasn't empty. For one thing he'd left part of himself in it. Not a hand or a nose or a foot, thank God. But things that had no substance but fantastic weight. He'd left his hope there, and trust. He'd left his faith there too. What little he had, he'd lost.

Much missed by… Why were there no words that felt? Words that when you touched them you'd feel what was intended? The chasm left by the loss of Madeleine? The lump in the throat that fizzed and ached. The terror of falling asleep knowing that on waking she'd relive the loss, like Prometheus bound and tormented each day. Everything had changed. Even her grammar. Suddenly she lived in the past tense. And the singular.

so many vaginas, stomachs, cocks, snouts, and flies you don't know what to do with them ... shovelsfull! ... but hearts? ... very rare! in the last five hundred million years too many cocks and gastric tubes to count ... but hearts? ... on your fingers! ...

How empty seems the town now you are gone! A wilderness of sad streets, where gaunt walls Hide nothing to desire.

I'm having a hard time writing about Sunday. Getting the long hollow feeling of Sundays. No mail and faraway lawn mowers, the hopelessness.

The day my father killed off my mother was the day he stopped knowing me.

Una cosa sé de la muerte. Cuanto "mejor" es la persona, cuanto más cariñosa, feliz y comprensiva, menor es el vacío que deja su muerte.

they will empty your eyes of everything you love

Then how come you went there?" "I was lonesome. Lonesome takes what it can get.

Losing Chloe had been like reading a wonderfulook only to realize that all the pages past a certain point were blank.

It's amazing how easily someone can leave your life. It's standing on a beach and stepping back to see the hole of your footprint subsumed by the sand and the sea as if it were never there. Grief, it turns out, is a lot like a one-sided video conversation on an iPad. It's the call with no response, the echo of affection, the shadow cast by love. But just because you can't see it anymore doesn't make it any less real.

And in general, the residents of the town wondered why they all felt hollow just beneath the throat, the result of missing something they had never been able to name in the first place.

Something was missing. I couldn't tell you what it was if you asked but it was off. And if you think of a relationship as a living entity, I guess it's one thing if the missing two percent is, like, a fingernail. But when it's the heart, that's a whole different ball of wax.

As it turns out, you can love someone too much. Then, when they leave, your heart goes missing. And no on can survive that great a loss.

Elise Vasquez and I stand shoulder to shoulder, watching the woman we both feel we lost, and may be never really had.

My father died last year," Thomas said. "I still look for him in crowds." "I'm sorry." He shrugged. "I think grief is like a really ugly couch. It never goes away. You can decorate around it; you can slap a doily on top of it; you can push it to the corner of the room—but eventually, you learn to live with it.

It doesn't matter what it is that leaves a hole inside you. It just matters that it's there.

Whatever we forfeit echoes the pain from all the other times we have been disappointed in our lives.