We are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love, never so forlornly unhappy as when we have lost our love object or its love.
The whole world can become the enemy when you lose what you love.
Losing Chloe had been like reading a wonderfulook only to realize that all the pages past a certain point were blank.
I'm sorry. I know you loved her. It was hard not to.
When its gone, you'll know what a gift love was. you'll suffer like this. So go back and fight to keep it.
We read poetry because the poets, like ourselves, have been haunted by the inescapable tyranny of time and death; have suffered the pain of loss, and the more wearing, continuous pain of frustration and failure; and have had moods of unlooked-for release and peace. They have known and watched in themselves and others.
I closed the box and put it in a closet. There is no real way to deal with everything we lose.
Losses do that. One life-loss can infect the whole of a life. Like a rash that wears through our days, our sight becomes peppered with black voids. Now everywhere we look, we only see all that isn’t: holes, lack, deficiency.
Mourning never ends for those who've faced unimaginable losses.
Is not absence death to those who love?
When you lose a parent, it's a strange feeling. It's a hard thing to get used to.
Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it.
Only in the agony of parting do we look into the depths of love.
There's something about losing friends, particularly young people, where it's not something that you get over. I don't believe there's a healing process.
What to say? That the end of love is a haunting. A haunting of dreams. A haunting of silence. Haunted by ghosts it is easy to become a ghost. Life ebbs. The pulse is too faint. Nothing stirs you. Some people approve of this and call it healing. It is not healing. A dead body feels no pain.
It is a blessing as well as a burden to love so much that you can hurt so badly when love is gone.
The only way to remove pain from death is to remove love from life.
There was but one thing for him;- to persevere till he got her, or till he had finally lost her. And should the latter be his fate, as he began to fear that it would be, then, he would live, but live only, like a crippled man.
The loss of love is a terrible thing; They lie who say that death is worse.
And, in a funny way, each death is different and you mourn each death differently and each death brings back the death you mourned earlier and you get into a bit of a pile-up.
