Quotes About Tragedy

The tragedy is not that love doesn't last. The tragedy is the love that lasts.

The least Charles could have done,' Constance said, considering seriously, 'was shoot himself through the head in the driveway.

I like my sister Constance, and Richard Plantagenet, and Amanita phalloides, the deathcup mushroom. Everyone else in my family is dead.

go." "In effect, she did. I really think the poor girl was hated to death; she hanged herself, by the way. Gossip says she hanged herself

Unfortunately Hill House was a sad house almost from the beginning; Hugh Crain's young wife died minutes before she first was to set eyes on the house, when the carriage bringing her here overturned in the driveway.

After all, we're blessed with doctors. I brought him two doctors. So they argued with each other. One said operate, the other said don't. Meanwhile, the patient died.

A thousand times more crimes were commited in the name of love, than in the name of hate.

Unlike when a young person commits suicide, which could never be anything but a mistake.

But, goodness me, poor Theresa! What a dreadful thing to happen in Smithy's Loam!' 'Or anywhere,' Mrs Pargeter observed mildly.

The overwhelming experience of tragedy is a disorientation expressed in one bewildered and frequently repeated question: What shall I do?

Tragedy is full of ghosts, ancient and modern, and the line separating the living from the dead is continually blurred. This means that in tragedy the dead don't stay dead and the living are not fully alive. What tragedy renders unstable is the line that separates the living from the dead, enlivening the dead and deadening the living.

In a blink of a life my brother James, mother and I lost a vital part of our tiny family. We were devastated. I felt completely bereft. And then 9/11 happened. And I had written the only book in the world about the group behind the devastating attack.

One of the great tragedies of the post-9/11 world is actually that the US President didn't use all of the power the crisis gave him.

On a fatal day, in the holy season of Lent, Hypatia was torn from her chariot, stripped naked, dragged to the church, and inhumanely butchered by the hands of Peter the Reader and a troop of savage and merciless fanatics; her flesh was scraped from her bones with sharp oyster-shells, and her quivering limbs were delivered to the flames.

God must have been on leave during the Holocaust.

In the aftermath of Krakatoa's eruption, 165 villages were devastated, 36,417 people died, and uncountable thousands were injured—and almost all of them, villages and inhabitants, were victims not of the eruption directly but of the immense sea-waves* that were propelled outward from the volcano by that last night of detonations.

The remains of sixty thousand young seamen now lay at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. More men had died there in the five years of the Second World War than in all of the conflicts in the ocean since the first Romans had set out on their invading expeditions nearly two thousand years before.

The explosion itself was terrific, a monstrous thing that still attracts an endless procession of superlatives. It was the greatest detonation, the loudest sound, the most devastating volcanic event in modern recorded human history, and it killed more than thirty-six thousand people.

My life was hurrying, racing tragically toward its end. And yet at the same time it was dripping so slowly, so very slowly now, hour by hour, minute by minute. One always has to wait until the sugar melts, the memory dies, the wound scars over, the sun sets, the unhappiness lifts and fades away.

Tragedies are all right for a while: you are concerned, you are curious, you feel good. And then it gets repetitive, it doesn't advance, it grows dreadfully boring: it is so very boring, even for me.

I love you, with a touch of tragedy and quite madly.

Life can't be bought piecemeal; it has to be purchased in bulk- all or nothing. Only there isn't time enough for everything, that's the tragedy of it.

depopulates it. Nothing exists outside of his stubborn project; therefore nothing can induce him to modify his choices. And having involved his whole life with an external object which can continually escape him, he tragically feels his dependence. Even if it does not definitely disappear, the object never gives itself. The passionate man makes himself a lack of being not that there might be being, but in order to be. And he remains at a distance; he is never fulfilled.

My life was hurrying, racing tragically toward its end. And yet at the same time it was dripping so slowly, so very slowly now, hour by hour, minute by minute.