Quotes About Tragedy

I'm fucked. We're fucked. Together. Like Romeo and Juliet, only we get to be in a sequel.

everyone looks up like rats caught in a spotlight eating the brains of a friend dead in a trap.

What a bawdy bitch is fate when the best bit of a bloke's day is a brace of bloody mermaid murders.

This woman could break my heart. I could crash and burn on this woman. I could lose this woman, drink heavily, write profound poems, and die in the gutter of tuberculosis over this woman.

Othello, you must, with fearful vigor and utmost alacrity, marry this bitch.

No... I'll stay, said Eragon shakily, wiping his mouth. He avoided looking at the gruesome sight before them. Who could have done... He could not force out the words. Brom bowed his head. Those who love the pain and suffering of others. They wear many faces and go by many disguises, but there is only one name for them : evil. There is no understanding it. All we can do is pity and honor the victims.

Una montaña de cuerpos se alzaba delante de ellos, inmóviles cadáveres con muecas de dolor. La ropa que llevaban y la tierra revuelta a su alrededor estaban empapadas de sangre. Los hombres asesinados yacían sobre las mujeres a las que habían tratado de proteger, las madres aún llevaban a sus hijos en brazos, y los amantes que habían intentado escudarse mutuamente descansaban en el frío abrazo de la muerte.

Eragon had not been close friends with Byrd, but he had known him to be a good man, honest and steadfast, and he remembered Byrd's wife, Felda, and their children with some fondness, for Garrow, Roran, and Eragon had eaten and slept in their house on several occasions. Byrd's death, then, struck Eragon as being particularly cruel, and he felt the watchman's family deserved justice

Only thing is, a soldier threw a pitcher and hit him on the temple. Killed him instantly.

It was the worst of things: loss utter and complete, without a chance of restoration.

Something like hearing that your grandmother got her whole body pulled through the wringer on a washing machine, or something like hearing about a horse slipping on the ice and landing on some kid you went to school with.

That is the mysterious thing about tragedy- it often strikes at the happiest moment.

By order of the Higher SS and Police Leader . . . all male Jews between the ages of 17 and 45 convicted as plunderers are to be shot according to martial law. The shootings are to take place away from cities, villages, and thoroughfares.

The murder program accelerated in the spring of 1943. German troops entered the Warsaw ghetto and killed thousands of Jews in street fighting. In the south, the Nazis began deporting Greek Jews from Salonika to Auschwitz. In the north, they deported Dutch Jews to Sobibor, gassing about 34,000 people there as they arrived. The SS also arranged a special transport for 3,000 Jewish mothers and children from the Netherlands; they murdered all of them.11

Wolff was successful in that effort and wrote of his "special joy (besondere Freude) now that five thousand members of the Chosen People are going to Treblinka every day.

Poland, it was said, had become a "slaughter house [where] the ghettoes are being systematically emptied of all Jews … none of those that are taken away are ever heard of again.

I have long believed that the ghosts of the past still linger here. They are stark reminders of the trauma and terror experienced by the unlucky patrons who had tickets to an afternoon matinee that day – and a chilling remembrance of a tragedy that should never be forgotten.

If anyone here is alive," he called out again, "groan or make some sound and we'll take you out." He looked around the auditorium, taking in the burned seats, the blackened walls, the twisted piles of debris on the stage, and the smoldering bodies of the dead. But the devastated Iroquois Theater was silent.

Musing upon the king my brother's wreck And on the king my father's death before him.

The darkest day of my life was the day I heard of Lincoln's assassination. I did not know what it meant. Here was the rebellion put down in the field, and staring up in the gutters...

ya se sabe que la historia se repite dos veces, la primera en forma de tragedia y la segunda en forma de farsa.

La tragedia del suicida consiste en que nada más saltar por la ventana, entre el séptimo y el sexto piso, se arrepiente: «¡Oh, si pudiese volver atrás!»

In the evening I came home and read about the Messina earthquake, and how the relief ships arrived, and the wretched survivors crowded down to the water's edge and tore each other like wild beasts in their rage of hunger. The paper set forth, in horrified language, that some of them had been seventy-two hours without food. I, as I read, had also been seventy-two hours without food; and the difference was simply that they thought they were starving.

Most of the boys Lanny had played with here, slightly older than himself, had died in Flanders. The sons they had left behind had died in the recent war; but the breed went on—generation after generation born, raised, educated at great expense and trouble, only to be slaughtered on some foreign field.