Quotes About Tragedy

The only things that merited reflection in the gorgeous young man's eyes were death and destruction—and those alone.

Every time you go to see Hamlet you don't expect it to have a happy ending...you're still enthralled. (Interview BBC Radio 4 Today 17 October 2012.)

And I thought I would win him, I really thought I would, for he was tenacious of the world, tenacious of his person, and had a good deal to live for. In the end he was his own murderer. He wrote and wrote and he talked and talked, then suddenly at a stroke he cancelled himself. If ever a man came close to beheading himself, Thomas More was that man.

To gentle pressure, King Henry capitulated; the White Rose, aged twenty-four, was taken out into God's light and air, in order to have his head cut off. But there is always another White Rose; the Plantagenets breed, though not unsupervised. There will always

It was only a year before his girls died of the same cause.

The beach at Gontin was unlucky for Shimada. On May 7, 1954, he was killed at a spot only about half a mile from the place where he had been wounded in the leg.

The only way I could see now to discharge my duty to those who had died so tragically was to carry out this desperate night attack on the enemy. I would lead the way into the enemy camp and slaughter as many Americans as I could.

They dug up the graves and burnt the bodies," he said. He began to tell me of an elderly man in the town but then stopped. "Do you want to speak to him?" he asked. "Who dug up the bodies?" "Qaddafi's men, of course," he said in a mildly offended tone. "Reinforcements arrived in buses. The situation here is very bad.

Every child needs a tragedy to become truly interesting.

If she'd known she was going to die at his hands, she would have dressed up.

At the end of a criminal's life, it's always the small mistake, the coincidence, the lark. The time we got too comfortable, the time we slipped up, the time someone aimed a little to the left. I've heard Grandad's war stories a thousand times. How they finally got Mo. How Mandy almost got away. How Charlie fell. Birth to grave, we know it'll be us one day. Our tragedy is that we forget it might be someone else first.

She was the epic crush of my childhood. She was the tragedy that made me look inside myself and see my corrupt heart. She was my sin and my salvation, come back from the grave to change me forever. Again. Back then, when she sat on my bed and told me she loved me, I wanted her as much as I have ever wanted anything.

A mortal had woven it, a man who, having caught sight of the Seelie queen, had spent the remainder of his short life weaving depictions of her. He had died of starvation, raw, red fingers staining the final tapestry.

Her tragedy, if she had one, was to be as normal and average as any child ever born.

Mom" I say "Oh honey" she says "The doctor wants to see you to make sure you don't have the same thing that killed your brother. " She turns to Ms.Logan who looks scandalized by the whole encounter. "These things can run in famalies" she confides. "Your afraid I'm going to come down with a bad case of getting two in the chest?" I say "cause you might be right about that running in families.

lt's an honor and a delight to meet you and a tragedy you're here

We are children of tragedy page 162

I was passed out cold while my family was murdered. It's hard to fall more lowly that that.

But she did run. She was almost around the corner when his blade struck her in the back. She crumpled to the linoleum, falling arms knocking magnets off the fridge.

Mom didn't move. Mom and Dad were dead. They were never going to move again.

I know I shouldn't love it as I do, stolen as I am from the mortal world, my parents murdered. But I love it all the same

She acts like we don't remember, like there's some way I am ever going to forget. She acts like it's her personal tragedy and hers alone.

So he proposed to you," I say. "While the royal family got butchered. That's so romantic.

The tan carpet was stiff and black with stripes of dried blood, spattered like a Jackson Pollock canvas. The walls were streaked with it, handprints smearing the dingy beige surfaces. And the bodies. Dozens of bodies. People she'd seen every day since kindergarten, people whom she'd played tag with and cried over and kissed, were lying at odd angles, their bodies pale and cold, their eyes staring like rows of dolls in a shop window.