Charles Baudelaire Quotes

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.

My heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it.

And there stood Basta with his foot already on another dead body, smiling. Why not? He had hit his target, and it was the target he had been aiming for all along: Dustfinger’s heart, his stupid heart. It broke in two as he held Farid in his arms, it simply broke in two, although he had taken such good care of it all these years.

Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart; My silent heart, lie still and break: Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed For a dream's sake.

Losing me will hurt; it will be the kind of pain that won't feel real at first, and when it does, it will take her breath away.

I hope you never hear those words. Your mom. She died. They are different than other words. They are too big to fit in your ears. They belong to some strange, heavy, powerful language that pounds away at the side of your head, a wrecking ball coming at you again and again, until finally, the words crack a hole large enough to fit inside your brain. And in so doing, they split you apart.

Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken and the world a howling wilderness.

I could tell you it's the heart, but what is really killing him is loneliness. Memories are worse than bullets.

My heart shattered. My world shattered

And often the worst thing wasn't the victims--they were dead, after all, and beyond any more pain. The worst thing was those who loved them and survived them. Often the walking dead from now on, shell-shocked, hearts ruptured, stumbling through the remainder of their lives without anything left inside of them but blood and organs, impervious to pain, having learned nothing except that the worst things did, in fact, sometimes happen. (Mystic River)

The things that break your heart when you think there's nothing left to break

I was terribly wounded by my wife's death.

The disasters of war can be infinitely eerie and poignant.

Losing a child is probably the singular most horrible thing.

It is the youth who must inherit the tribulation, the sorrow... that are the aftermath of war.

Grief seems at first to destroy not just all patterns, but also to destroy a belief that a pattern exists.

When Michael died I was tipped over the edge. I was beyond grief.

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.

There's no road map. There's no textbook on how grief works and when your heart will be open - or if it ever will.

The heart will break, but broken live on.

It is a curious sensation: the sort of pain that goes mercifully beyond our powers of feeling. When your heart is broken, your boats are burned: nothing matters any more. It is the end of happiness and the beginning of peace.

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.

Love is the funeral of hearts.

How could I share with you how I felt when two towers that I loved, two pieces of steel and glass and concrete fell down, when actually they took with them thousands of human lives? That is the actual tragedy. But those towers were almost human for me. I was in love with them, and that's why I married them with a tight rope.

I lost my husband, and it's a horrific thing to live through.