Leo Tolstoy Quotes

L'ide e qu'on mourra est plus cruelle que mourir, mais moins que l'ide e qu'un autre est mort. The idea of dying is worse than dying itself, but less cruel than the idea that another has died.

Every time a man dies, a child dies too, and an adolescent and a young man as well; everyone weeps for the one who was dear to him.

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.

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

I done been to so many funerals.

You can really examine the suffering and consequences that happen when there's a loss in a family.

A fundamental and unfortunate part of being alive is to suffer loss and to suffer grief.

Inside my mother's death / I lay and could not breathe.

I've not really had a bad Christmas. Apart from serious things, like when my father died. He rather spoiled the party and I've never forgiven him for falling off the twig on Christmas Day.

A man suffers death himself as often as he loses those dear to him.

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.

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

Whoever mourns the dead mourns himself.

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.

When someone dies, it is like when your house burns down; it isn't for years that you realize the full extent of your loss.

We understand death only after it has placed its hands on someone we love.

Child of mortality, whence comest thou? Why is thy countenance sad, and why are thine eyes red with weeping?

Death itself is too big to take in, she already sees that; the loss comes at you instead in an infinite number of small installments that can never be paid off.

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

It’s odd, isn’t it? People die every day and the world goes on like nothing happened. But when it’s a person you love, you think everyone should stop and take notice. That they ought to cry and light candles and tell you that you’re not alone.

After my husband died, I could not write much - I could not concentrate. I was too exhausted most of the time even to contemplate writing. But I did take notes - not for fiction, but for a journal, or diary, of this terrible time. I did not think that I would ever survive this interlude.

I remember the day my mother died, and it's still hard to talk about it. I just blocked it out.

Everybody has lost somebody that they care about, or hopefully you haven't, but that's part of life.

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