Quotes About Tragedy

My daughter, Grace, was not killed by a gun. She died suddenly at age 5 from a virulent form of strep. As I stood stunned in a church at her memorial, one of the hardest things I heard someone say was, 'I'm going to go home and hug my child a little tighter.' 'Well, good for you,' I thought. 'I'm going to go home and scream.'

John F. Kennedy, the man I had thought would define the political ideal for the rest of my days, was suddenly gone in the senseless violence of a single moment.

I was depressed for a year after 'The Pianist,' and I don't suffer from that, generally. It wasn't just a depression; it was a mourning.

The Jews were gassed. Armenians were killed in every conceivable way... So the Holocaust doesn't interest me, see? They've had a lot of publicity, but they didn't suffer as much.

Seeing death is not as difficult as you might think. What's harder is to see people suffer. It's the people the dead left behind that get to you.

No one should suffer what I suffered. I still dread those scenes when man killed man. I lost my parents, most of my family, by running away.

I was struck after 9/11 by what seemed the assumption that everyone bereaved by that event was suffering the same thing. I wanted to explore how individual grief is, how complicated, how colored by the complexity of the mourner's relationship with the person who's died.

Grief causes suffering and disease.

They said their sufferings were great on the passage, and several of their number had died.

Suicide is not an answer, it's destruction.

Is it hard for the reader to believe that suicides are sometimes committed to forestall the committing of murder? There is no doubt of it. Nor is there any doubt that murder is sometimes committed to avert suicide.

Sylvia Plath was just a month and a half older than I, and when she committed suicide I was only 30 - and very shocked and sorry. I never knew her personally.

The extraordinary summer heatwave of 2003 in Europe resulted in over 35,000 extra deaths.

My father blamed me for my brother Gunther's death, for not bringing him home. He died in an avalanche as we descended from the summit of Nanga Parbat, one of the 14 peaks over 8,000m, in 1970. Gunther and I did so much together. It was difficult for my father to understand what it was like up there.

No one wanted to own Bloody Sunday.

Jallianwala Bagh's dead and dying spent the 13th night with dogs and vultures.

His name was Clifton and he was black and they shot him. Isn't that enough to tell? Isn't it all you need to know?

1842  Son Waldo (age 5) dies of scarlet fever.  Journalist Walt Whitman (age 23) attends Emerson's lecture on poetry in New York City. In his report for the New York Aurora, Whitman writes that it was the "richest and most beautiful" lecture he'd ever heard. On the same New York trip, Emerson becomes godfather to newborn William James, son of his friend, Henry James, Sr.

A tragédia está nos olhos de quem a observa, e não no coração de quem a sofre

SCRIVEN (1820–1886) wrote "What a Friend We Have in Jesus" after his fiancée drowned. George Matheson (1842–1906) wrote "O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go" after his fiancée rejected him because he was going blind.

Tragedia maturiz?rii nu const? în faptul c? ne pierdem copil?ria în simplitatea ei, ci în aceea c? ne pierdem inocenÈ›a în sublimul ei.

Staring at life's cryptogram, we either see His [Jesus'] name unmistakably resplendont or we see the confusion of religions with no single message, just garbled beliefs that plague our existence, each justified by the voice of culture. That may be the tragedy of the beguiling sentiment we call tolerance, which has become a euphemism for contradiction.

Pleasure without boundaries produces a life without purpose. That is real pain. No death, no tragedy, no atrocity—nothing really matters. Life is sheer hollowness, with no purpose. In

Staring at life's cryptogram, we either see His name unmistakably resplendent or we see the confusion of religions with no single message, just garbled beliefs that plague our existence, each justified by the voice of culture. That may be the tragedy of the beguiling sentiment we call tolerance, which has become a euphemism for contradiction.