Seneca the Younger Quotes

I don't know if my work is a concerted effort to make kids sad! But life and death go hand in hand. It's our condition as human beings.

One half of my life has put the other half in the grave.

My life closed twice before its close

Every life is punctuated by deaths and departures, and each one causes great suffering that it is better to endure rather than forgo the pleasure of having known the person who has passed away. Somehow our world rebuilds itself after every death, and in any case we know that none of us will last forever. So you might say that life and death lead us by the hand, firmly but tenderly.

Laughter and grief join hands. Always the heart Clumps in the breast with heavy stride; The face grows lined and wrinkled like a chart, The eyes bloodshot with tears and tide. Let the wind blow, for many a man shall die.

Oh eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears; O life, no life, but lively form of death; Oh world, no world, but mass of public wrongs.

Life is full of misery, loneliness, and suffering - and it's all over much too soon.

I don't want to sound like you never feel anything - we've all loved and lost, all had a lot of pain, and we're supposed to. We're humans; it's the way it works. But it's how you manage it, how you manage those tears and that pain. How you are able to get yourself out of it.

Even if you live to be a ripe old age, you live long enough to see the people you love pass away.

I know what it's like to see one's mother go through the agony of death and be unable to help; there is no consolation. We all have to bear such heavy burdens, for they are unalterably linked to life.

Tears are the tribute of humanity to its destiny.

Being human means losing everything we love best in the world," she murmured as she released me. "But would you ask to be anything else?

We were born to die; we were born to endure, on the way to death, sorrow-sorrow in manifold shapes.

The truth is simple, you do not die from love. You only wish you did.

Sooner or later we all lose our loved ones. We all have to suffer, every last one of us.

Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in others pain And perish in our own.

Writers write about what obsesses them. You draw those cards. I lost my mother when I was 14. My daughter died at the age of 6. I lost my faith as a Catholic. When I'm writing, the darkness is always there. I go where the pain is.

This is the Hour of Lead- Remembered, if outlived, As freezing persons, recollect the Snow- First-Chill-then Stupor- then the letting go---

Remember that thy heart will shed its pleasures as thine eye its tears, and both leave loathsome furrows.

We each die countless little deaths on our way to the last. We die out of shame as humiliation. We perish from despair. And, of course, we die for love.

Sorrows must die with the joys they outnumber.

Every loss which we incur leaves behind it vexation in the memory, save the greatest loss of all, that is, death, which annihilates the memory, together with life.

Whatever lives, lives to die in sorrow. We engage our hearts, and grasp after the things of this world, only to undergo the pang of losing them.

Loss is the great unifier, the terrible club to which we all eventually belong.