Quotes About Tragedy

How can this be happening to me? Cowboy Denny Holliday, destroyed by a bear.

His last years were beset with financial troubles; he drank heavily; he wrote to Chughtai on more than one occasion, pleading with her to find a way for him to come back to India. She was surprised to learn that far from large protests and signed declarations on his behalf, many in Pakistan felt he deserved to be punished. He died on January 18, 1955 in Lahore at the age of forty two.

death of Ophelia while she was bringing Sebastian into the world. No

lake and drop dead. Only Yudhishthira, the eldest of them, is left. Always the humble and

Cómo es posible que la sucesión de masacres escolares en Estados Unidos no haya conmovido al país lo suficiente como para imponer el fin de la venta libre de armas?

Hipócrates[207], tras sanar muchas enfermedades, enfermó él y murió. Los

Originally tragedies were bought on to remind us of real events, and that such things naturally occur, and that on life's greater stage you must not be vexed at things, which on the stage you find so attractive.

William Sloane Coffin said when his son Alex died in a car wreck at the age of twenty-four. Ten days later, Coffin delivered Alex's eulogy at Riverside Church in New York City, where he was senior minister. Among many other things, he said this:

But in life, a tragedy is not one long scream. It includes everything that led up to it. Hour after trivial hour, day after day, year after year, and then the sudden moment: the knife stab, the shell burst, the plummet of the car from a bridge.

Ten days after the war ended, my sister Laura drove a car off a bridge.

That's the kind of stories I know. Sad ones. Anyway, taken to it's logical conclusion, every story is sad, because at the end everyone dies.

Last week they shot a woman, right about here. She was a Martha. She was fumbling in her robe, for her pass, and they thought she was hunting for a bomb. They thought she was a man in disguise. There have been such incidents. Rita and Cora knew the woman. I heard them talking about it, in the kitchen. Doing their job, said Cora. Keeping us safe.

But in life, a tragedy is not one long scream. It includes everything that led up to it. Hour after trivial hours, day after day, year after year, and then the sudden moment: the knife stab, the shell-burst, the plummet of the car from the bridge.

I'm sorry there is so much pain in this story. I'm sorry it's in fragments, like a body caught in crossfire or pulled apart by force. But there is nothing I can do to change it.

This was the story of the Concubine Cut into Twelve Pieces.

Their mother died early, and not in a good way. Not that anyone dies in a good way, Tin footnotes to himself, but there are degrees. Being hit by a truck after closing time while jaywalking blinded with mournful tears was not a good way. Though it was quick.

Life is a tragedy for those who feel and a comedy for those who think. It is vital to mourn for the victims of this government, but not at the expense of losing our sense of humor. Our ability to laugh coincides directly with our ability to fight. If we can make fun of it, we can transcend it.

He would go to Vera and deliver the horrible news and comfort the poor woman with his prayers and platitudes and tell her how God was with her, no matter what. She knew the words by heart; there had been times when he had used them on her, and she wondered if God had been with T.J. when they were cutting his arms to the bones.

she might have died in the accident. But there was nothing—nothing—a priest could offer her.

It is not my intention to give away the plot; but I think I die at the end.

War is a sinkhole that sucks money and men into it and is never filled.

Troy deserves her doom, then!" said Cassandra. "I leave it to you. I shall perish with you! But I see my end, whereas you are blind.

It seems we've been at cross purposes, doesn't it? But it's no use now. As long as there was Bonnie, there was a chance that we might be happy. I liked to think that Bonnie was you, a little girl again, before the war, and poverty had done things to you. She was so like you, and I could pet her, and spoil her, as I wanted to spoil you. But when she went, she took everything.

It was unreal, grotesquely unreal, that morning skies which dawned so tenderly blue could be profaned with cannon smoke that hung over the town like low thunder clouds, that warm noontides filled with the piercing sweetness of massed honeysuckle and climbing roses could be so fearful, as shells screamed into the streets, bursting like the crack of doom, throwing iron splinters hundreds of yards, blowing people and animals to bits.