Quotes About Tragedy

How is your woman taking this?" Warrior asked. "Her heart is on the ground." Warrior sighed. "This is bad, Hunter, very bad. Her mother? Her father? She will never forgive this." Hunter increased his pace, growing more concerned by the second that he had left Loretta alone. "She has no choice. We have said words, yes? She is my woman." "But Red Buffalo killed her parents!" "She is still my woman.

Three out of five Civil War soldiers who died during the war were killed by disease unrelated to wounds.

Great tragedy brings great growth, Anton. It wakes us up. It makes us into someone a little different from who we were before.

But it's funny how you can take something that turns out to be fatal and classify it as not worth fixing.

Over a hundred and twenty Leors had lost their lives, and at least a hundred more had been wounded.

Folk dress in all manner of finery and wonderful hats to go and watch the races, but only if it's horses doing the barreling that day. This, at least, is understandable, for horses, in secret, love hats more than any other creature. It is a horse's tragedy that they can never properly wear one.

No, my son. Not she. I . I lay on the rocks and the sun gnawed at my flesh. I pleaded for my life with a useless stump of a tongue. I watched your precious Cveti close up my severed breasts in a silver box. And I listened to the soldiers praise her false name—Ghyfran! Ghyfran! The whore who betrayed her god for power. This body is new, but I am Ragnhild, first of my name, and I am the plague which will burn through the marrow of the Anointed City.

horses, in secret, love hats more than any other creature. It is a horse's tragedy that they can never properly wear one.

That's how it goes—as soon as there's anything interesting in Ancient Greece, some arsehole with a magic hat comes along to murder it.

O let it be enough what thou hast done, When spotted deaths ran arm'd through every street, With poison'd darts, which not the good could shun, The speedy could outfly, or valiant meet. The living few, and frequent funerals then, Proclaim'd thy wrath on this forsaken place: And now those few who are return'd agen Thy searching judgments to their dwellings trace. From Annus Mirabilis, The Year of Wonders, 1666, by John Dryden

It is the blight man was born for,It is Margaret you mourn for.

It ís the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for.

Into the snows she sweeps, Hurling the haven behind, The Deutschland, on Sunday; and so the sky keeps, For the infinite air is unkind, And the sea flint-flake, black-backed in the regular blow, Sitting Eastnortheast, in cursed quarter, the wind; Wiry and white-fiery and whirlwind-swivelled snow Spins to the wido-making unchilding unfathering deeps. (from "The Wreck of the Deutschland, Part the Second")

I was fortunate to have had a happy childhood, one that in all probability was not as perfect as I have chosen to remember. But its memory has helped me survive, and I have used it as a beacon to illuminate the darkness of the tragedy that followed, just as I often use the darkness of past despair to show me the blessings which I might otherwise take for granted.

They didn't really have a childhood. Just them and Mom and then her liver went and she died and it was just them. Except they never learned to be grown-ups. And they never learned to be just kids, either. Stuck in never-never land. Kinda sad.

The priest was no different from the others now. He lay on the ground. His legs were crushed under a girder. He couldn't feel a thing. His pain went unfelt. In five minutes at mot he would burn to death. He thought: That's the reward for being keen.

Those two really tall buildings are the World Trade Center — the Twin Towers.

Chi non ha i nomi per la sofferenza la agisce, la esprime volgendola in violenza, con conseguenze spesso tragiche.

While we have the gift of life, it seems to me the only tragedy is to allow part of us to die - whether it is our spirit, our creativity or our glorious uniqueness.

While we have the gift of life, it seems to me that only tragedy is to allow part of us to die—whether it is our spirit, our creativity, or our glorious uniqueness.

If you laugh at it, you're stepping over the corpses. And if you work with him, well, it's worse.

And yet. It is not easy, living in the shadow of someone's Tragic Illness, so that everything you do seems insubstantial by comparison. Other people in the world would have to agree that this is true.

Here in London, however, without the manacle of her tragedies, divorced even from her name, her identity feels so light it might simply float away.

You make the Titanic look like a tiny little misadventure.