Quotes About Tragedy

I was much distressed by next door people who had twin babies and played the violin but one of the twins died, and the other has eaten the fiddle, so all is peace.

HISTORY IS A bath of blood," wrote William James

So does nobody care about Ireland?" "Nobody. Neither King Louis, nor King Billie, nor King James." He nodded thoughtfully. "The fate of Ireland will be decided by men not a single one of whom gives a damn about her. That is her tragedy.

To trust God means to depend upon God This is the reason children are content. They know, deep down, they are taken care of. To lose this feeling is the great tragedy of life. To find it again, the greatest recovery.

So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head.

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, / Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Cry on the world tragedies, cruelties, and injustice, how long and much you can if you have the heart.

How I deep judge, how I deep, surprise, and shock at the brutal killing of the innocent people.

One that becomes broken, suffering from life tragedies, can't feel pleasure; similarly, the collapsed-building can't shelter, no matter how expensive it was.

He had been far away from home, and something terrible had happened … and it was that something which had taken their lives and blown them apart. She understood too, now, after all these years, that Brian hadn't meant to hurt her.

heroes exterminated each other for the benefit of other people who were not heroes.

In the 1590s, physicians examining the corpse of King Henri IV's twenty-six-year-old mistress agreed that she had, in fact, been killed by a "corrupt lemon."320

El olor de la muerte es inconfundible; es un olor a cuerpo sin alma. Las pequeñas cabezas de muñecas, los carritos de niños, las partituras de música, el almanaque, los restos de múltiples colchones, ropas desperdigadas, sólo el teclado de un piano, tendido de fatiga sobre la tierra, todo ello conforma el lenguaje de los escombros.

Nunca hemos llorado tanto como en esos días, sí, nosotras las mujeres. Como si quisiéramos lavar a fuerza de lágrimas todas las imágenes, todos los muros, todas las aristas, todas las bancas de piedra manchadas de sangre de Tlatelolco, todas las huellas de los cuerpos desangrándose en los rincones... Pero es mentira que las imágenes se lavan a fuerza de lágrimas. Allí siguen en la memoria. • Perla Vérez de Aguilera, madre de familia

Matar a un joven es matar la esperanza. • Cristina Correa de Salas, maestra de primaria

Only yesterday an express train tore up a whole flock of sheep not far from here, over forty dead animals, flung through the air like cotton-wool balls, the good shepherd fallen asleep drunk somewhere, the dog in the field alone, not a hope. Now the shepherd has to bear joint responsibility for the whole loss, or don't you think he bears a responsibility, dear television audience, write and let us know what you think, it's your views that count.

It all happened so fast. The ghetto. The deportation. The sealed cattle car. The fiery altar upon which the history of our people and the future of mankind were meant to be sacrificed.

Night is purer than day; it is better for thinking and loving and dreaming. At night everything is more intense, more true. The echo of words that have been spoken during the day takes on a new and deeper meaning. The tragedy of man is that he doesn't know how to distinguish between day and night. He says things at night that should only be said by day.

as for unhappy families, star-crossed lovers, and exiled heroes, they are simply universal.

On the train back, Svetlana told me about a Serbian movie director who had been friends with her father in Belgrade. The director's wife, an actress, had gone to Paris to make a movie with a young French director. The French director had died tragically, by falling off a bar-stool. "They say it might have been suicide," Svetlana said.

if you looked at it a certain way it seemed like a monument to destroyed women-- their ossified bodies and shattered psyches.

Alive she was strikingly pretty. Dead she was so beautiful you could have raised an army to sack Troy just for possession of her casket

The victims," he said, "looked like a field of timothy grass, blown flat by the wind and rain after a summer storm.

His mastery of the hard-luck story was of a kind never achieved by persons not wholly concentrated on themselves.