Vernon Howard Quotes

Grief is the agony of an instant; the indulgence of grief the blunder of a life.

Love hurts more than hate.

Love and despair go hand in hand.

I've had to walk through a lot of my tears.

Losing hurts, it always hurts, and it should hurt.

There are only two kinds of pain: too much love or too little.

Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining.

When I'm in pain and grief and despair, my throat is clenched and my heart hurts.

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me; Is't not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?

He was at his own request and through his own complicity driven out of all his happinesses one after the other; and he had this sorrow, that after having lost Cosette wholly in one day, he was afterwards obliged to lose her again in detail.

The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.

in the caves of my heart, where pain taps out its rhythms and sorrow sets its loss, i am without direction.

The night below. We two. Crystal of pain. You wept over great distances. My ache was a clutch of agonies over your sickly heart of sand.

Sorrow is one of the vibrations that prove the fact of living.

When a person that one loves is in the world and alive and well, and pleased to be in the world, then to miss them is only a new flavor, a salt sharpness in experience. It is when the beloved is unhappy or maimed or troubled that one misses with pain.

Nothing is painful in and of itself. Pain is a result of wrong thought. It is an error in thinking.

There's no love without pain.

Pain can only feed on pain. Pain cannot feed on joy. It finds it quite indigestible.

Ah, me, if this is love, then how it torments.

Sorrow, on wing through the world for ever, Here and there for awhile would borrow Rest, if rest might haply deliver Sorrow.

Missing rubs the soul raw.

For what is delusion but the prelude to hurt. And what is hurt but the prelude to rage.

In grief, words are a poor consolation - silence and agonizing tears are all that is left the sufferer.

By then Esthappen and Rahel had learned that the world had other ways of breaking men. They were already familiar with the smell. Sicksweet. Like old roses on a breeze.

There is no space wider than that of grief.