C. S. Lewis Quotes

My greatest affliction... is perhaps the major theme of my writings, the affliction of loneliness that follows me like a shadow, a very ponderous shadow too heavy to drag after me all of my days and nights.

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

Grief, for me, is a moment-to-moment experience.

I understand the power of sorrow, and I understand how far it can take us from ourselves if we let it.

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

(His) sadness grew; it became a rock inside him, pulling him down. He carried the sadness everywhere, morning, noon, and night. It hurt to breathe.

My soul is a dark ploughed field In the cold rain; My soul is a broken field Ploughed by pain.

Guilt is a tireless horse. Grief ages into sorrow, and sorrow is an enduring rider.

There is nothing that stirs in the whole world of thought to which sorrow does not vibrate in terrible and exquisite pulsation.

While I did a lot of research, I ended up feeling that the best way to write about grief was to describe it from the inside out - the show the strange intensities that come along with it, the peculiar thoughts, the longing for that past - all the strange moments of thinking you glimpse the dead person on the street, or in your dreams.

Sometimes I don't know what to say; the pain never stops. The cloud never goes away, the rain never drops

At least it was instant. At least there wasn't any pain." I knew he was only trying to help, but he didn't get it. There was pain. A dul endless pain in my gut that wouldn't go away even when I knelt on the stingingly frozen tile of the bathroom, dry-heaving.

That’s the thing you never expect about grieving, what a competition it is.

But solitude is sadness.' 'Yes; it is sadness. Life, however, has worse than that. Deeper than melancholy lies heart-break.

In this life you can take poverty, you can take failure, you can take the big things; it's the little griefs that destroy you inside.

We were resigned to suffering, thinking that we loved outside ourselves, and we perceive that our love is a function of our sorrow, that our love perhaps is our sorrow.

Small sorrows speak great ones are silent.

Extreme torture is mute, and so we sat silent, petrified, like columns of marble buried under the sand of an earthquake. Neither wished to listen to the other because our heart-threads had become weak and even breathing would have broken them.

Physical suffering apart, not a single sorrow exists that can touch us except through our thoughts.

Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows.

Sorrow was all my soul; I scarce believed, Till grief did tell me roundly, that I lived.

But it was not the room’s disorder which was frightening; it was the fact that when one began searching for the key to this disorder, one realized that it was not to be found in any of the usual places. For this was not a matter of habit or circumstance or temperament; it was a matter of punishment and grief.

I thought I could describe a state; make a map of sorrow. Sorrow, hoever, turns out to be not a state but a process.

One must go through periods of numbness that are harder to bear than grief.