Quotes About Tragedy

You'll call me a damned Jew, a Christ murderer, a secret worshipper of pigs and a kidnapper of christian children." This was all said cheerfully. "How absurd! Who would want to kidnap children, Christian or otherwise? Vile things. The only mercy of children is that they grow up, as my son has but then, tragically, they beget more children. We do not learn life's lessons.

Once they passed a village sacked by the French. Not a building remained intact, not a person was in sight, not an animal still lived.

The cellar was spattered with blood, with bodies that showed death in a dozen horrid ways. Wine-racks stood by the walls, looted empty, but the floor was black with Spanish blood, strewn with mutilations obscene as nightmare. Young, old, men and women, all killed horribly. It struck Sharpe that these people must have died the day before, as he watched from the hilltop, killed as the French pretended the village was empty.

The first stone, thrown by Hellgiver, crashed through the roof of a dyer's house close to St Brieuc's church and took off the heads of an English man-at-arms and the dyer's wife. A joke went through the garrison that the two bodies were so crushed together by the boulder that they would go on coupling throughout eternity.

Wyn eal gedreas. Isso é parte de outro poema que às vezes ouço ser cantado no meu castelo. É um poema triste, e portanto um poema verdadeiro. Wyrd bið ful ãræd, diz ele. O destino é inexorável. E wyn eal gedreas. Toda alegria morreu.

Night was falling across the trampled rye. Nine thousand men had been killed or wounded in the fight for the crossroads

I want it to be the poet's Camelot: green grass and high towers and ladies in gowns and warriors strewing their paths with flowers. I want minstrels and laughter! Wasn't it ever like that? A little, I said, though I don't remember many flowery paths. I do recall the warriors limping out of battle, and some of them crawling and weeping with their guts trailing behind them in the dust.

much followed from that hurried ceremony in the flower-speckled clearing beside the stream. So many died. There was so much heartache, so much blood and so many tears that they would have made a great river; yet, in time, the eddies smoothed, new rivers joined, and the tears went down to the great wide sea and some people forgot how it ever began. The time of glory did come, yet what might have been never did, and of all those who were hurt by that moment in the sun, Arthur was hurt the most.

Wonderboy flashed in the sun. It caught the sphere where it was biggest. A noise like a twenty-one gun salute cracked the sky. There was a straining, ripping sound and a few drops of rain spattered to the ground. The ball screamed toward the pitcher and seemed suddenly to dive down at his feet. He grabbed it to throw to first and realized to his horror that he held only the cover. The rest of it, unraveling cotton thread as it rode, was headed into the outfield.

Sam Pearl, curvo su un foglio verde delle corse, gli fece un cenno di saluto con la mano grassoccia. A nessuno dei due veniva mai in mente di mettersi a chiacchierare. Che ne capiva lui delle corse di cavalli? Che ne sapeva l'altro della tragicità della vita?

Malone: Me father died of starvation in Ireland in the black 47. Maybe you've heard of it. Violet: The Famine? Malone: No, the starvation. When a country is full o food, and exporting it, there can be no famine.

To write tragedy, a man must feel tragedy. To feel tragedy, a man must be aware of the world in which he lives. Not only with his mind, but with his blood and sinews.

Great Empedocles, that ardent soul, Leapt into Etna, and was roasted whole.

One way the enemy of our souls deflects the shame he experienced at the Cross is to keep us too heaped in our own shame to notice his. The tragedy is that we play right along, as if he were more believable than Jesus.

It's because a country-western song can start you out at a family picnic eating buttermilk-fried chicken and watermelon on your great-grandmother's quilt, with butterflies flitting about, and before it ends, your daddy's gone to prison and your momma's run off with the preacher and your little brother's blowing butterflies to dust with a BB gun.

Have you noticed how people who most ignore God are the first to blame Him in time of tragedy?

Quite tragically, some who have believed in Christ have believed little of Him since. But He who began a good work in us

The first jolt I received in my life was when I lost my father in a motorcycle accident when I was eight. I would have been with him if he hadn't turned down my request to go out with him that afternoon.

'Amores Perros' is rock, '21 Grams' is jazz, 'Babel' is an opera, and 'Biutiful' is a requiem.

Losing one's mother to a car crash at age four isn't a readily accessible idea of good luck, but I've come to accept it as the condition that was required for my luck to fall into place.

I was 10 years old when my father was assassinated in 1968. Then, I had some sense of the sacrifices and hardships required of the families of a leader who was constantly in the news.

In 1906, just as we were definitely giving up the old shed laboratory where we had been so happy, there came the dreadful catastrophe which took my husband away from me and left me alone to bring up our children and, at the same time, to continue our work of research.

My siblings and I were watching the evening news and we saw it flashed across the screen that our father had been shot... we just knew that something terrible had happened.

Like every American, I will never forget where I was on the morning of September 11, 2001. As a member of Congress from Indiana, that day my duties took me to Capitol Hill and to sights and sounds I will never forget.