Ara Parseghian Quotes

My father died in my arms. That's tumult. That's everything exploding.

When the baby dies, On every side Rose stranger's voices, hard and harsh and loud. The baby was not wrapped in any shroud. The mother made no sound. Her head was bowed That men's eyes might not see Her misery.

It's kinda hard to be optimistic, When your homies lying dead on the pavement twisted.

I was slapped down to the ground when my son Wade died in 1996, in April of 1996.

There's no tragedy in life like the death of a child. Things never get back to the way they were.

My daughter, Grace, was not killed by a gun. She died suddenly at age 5 from a virulent form of strep. As I stood stunned in a church at her memorial, one of the hardest things I heard someone say was, 'I'm going to go home and hug my child a little tighter.' 'Well, good for you,' I thought. 'I'm going to go home and scream.'

There is nothing to be compared to this, 'cause we lost our brother, our hero. The world is mourning. We are mourning. The fans are mourning. It is unreal. Unbelievable.

And my little sister died when she was 16.

Every day is a new sense of tearing my heart out of my body again when I see other children who have been killed, and I know what their families are going through.

The loss of a child is my greatest nightmare.

I'm in a great rage now, as I understand how many lives we have lost.

A piece of each of us died.

At the root of everything I write is tragedy.

I guess, over time, I had convinced myself that I could imagine what it would be like to lose a son or daughter. You try to imagine it so that you can write the right kind of letters or form the right words to try to comfort. But you can't even come close. It is unimaginable.

Grief is a world you walk through skinned, unshelled.

Slipknot started out of tragedy.

I know what it's like to lose.

Cancer has been a dark thread that has run throughout my life. It's taken my friends, my parents. My beautiful son.

Nothing had prepared me for the depth of pain George's death precipitated.

As Ginny and Hermione moved closer to the rest of the family, Harry had a clear view of the bodies lying next to Fred: Remus and Tonks, pale and still and peaceful-looking, apparently asleep beneath the dark, enchanted ceiling.

People talk of sorrow as if it is soft, a thing of water and tears. But true sorrow is not soft. True sorrow is a thing of fire, and rock. It burns your heart, crushes your soul under the weight of mountains. It destroys, and even if you keep breathing, keep going, you die.

She died on a windy gray day in March when the sky was full of darting crows and the world lay prostrate and defeated after winter. Peter Lake was at her side and it ruined him forever. It broke him as he had not ever imagined he could have been broken. He would never again be young, or able to remember what it was like to be young. What he had once taken to be pleasures would appear to him in his defeat as hideous and deserved punishments for reckless vanity.

I remember burying a girl fourteen years of age who had died with a ruptured appendix... I buried a good many people that I knew, some of whom I loved.

Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion of death.

Grief is exhausting.