Quotes About Tragedy

La tragedia más terrible no es morir, sino vivir sin propósito.

You want to feel sorry for him, but he was his own undoing.

I have changed my definition of tragedy. I now think tragedy is not foul deeds done to a person (usually noble in some manner) but rather that tragedy is irresolvable conflict.

Tragically, Solomon's

Holst's astringent orchestral piece Egdon Heath, completed shortly after visiting Hardy, captures the novelist's eerie atmospheres and weight of foreclosing tragedy.

Time would never cure it. Almost half a century later, when she was the only one of the nine Kennedy siblings still living, the author would ask Jean Kennedy Smith about her brother Bobby and his depression over Jack's death. "When did he come out of that?" she repeated, and then said, "I don't think he ever came out of that.

Johnson told the doctors that "he enjoyed nothing but whiskey, sunshine and sex." Reedy found the moment "poignant," he was to recall. "Without realizing what he was doing, he had outlined succinctly the tragedy of his life. The only way he could get away from himself was sensation: sun, booze, sex.

A great artist can look at an old woman, portray her exactly as she is . . . and force the viewer to see the pretty girl she used to be . . . more than that, he can make anyone with the sensitivity of an armadillo see that this lovely young girl is still alive, prisoned inside her ruined body. He can make you feel the quiet, endless tragedy that there was never a girl born who ever grew older than eighteen in her heart . . . no matter what the merciless hours have done.

He can make you feel the quiet, endless tragedy that there was never a girl born who ever grew older than eighteen in her heart . . . no matter what the merciless hours have done.

It's a nasty story. I got that much before my informant sobered up. Dr. Ward Smith delivered his wife by Caesarean section—and she died on the table. What he did next shows that he knew the score; with the same scalpel he cut Captain Brant's throat—then his own. Sorry, hon." Jill

Oh, as the tragedies of Shakespeare have revealed, the fall of kings is but fodder for the riches entertainments.

So EMIC realities are very powerful. Six million Jews died because of an EMIC realtiy. That reality was as real as the guns and bombs of the war because that reality was believed in.

So far so good. I had a recently widowed mother and her orphaned son crying hysterically. Maybe for an encore I could shoot the family dog.

Murder was a terrible thing. Even if you're not quite right in the head, you can realize that much. Mother must be suffering quite a bit. Perhaps

That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened the next tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss . . .

Smiling the boy fell dead.

Who was a queen and loved a poet once Humpbacked, a dwarf? ah, women can do that!

I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around...

Mrs. Bartello opened the screen wider, her eyes bunching with sorrow. "I'm sorry. You don't know. I'm sorry. Donna passed away." Holman felt himself slow as if he had been drugged; as if his heart and breath and the blood in his veins were winding down like a phonograph record when you pulled the plug. First Richie, now Donna. He didn't say anything, and Mrs. Bartello's sorrowful eyes grew knowing. She

There are two crime scenes at every kidnapping. The first crime scene is where they snatch you, the second is where the cops find your body.

In the interest of thinking tragically in order to avoid tragedy, policy makers need to worry about how not to provoke more anarchy than the world has already seen.

The United States, like any nation—but especially because it is a great power—simply has interests that do not always cohere with its values. That is tragic, but it is a tragedy that has to be embraced and accepted.

One marker, which I would read a bit later on, tells the familiar story of Narcissa Whitman, trail-blazer and martyred missionary, who followed the north side of the Platte in 1836 on horseback, becoming the first white women to cross the American continent, and who, along with her husband, Marcus, was massacred by Cayuse Indians at their Protestant mission in 1847 in Walla Walla, Washington. (The Indians there were justifiably enraged at the whites for spreading measles to them.)

Tragedy is a tool for the living to gain wisdom, not a guide by which to live.