You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.
The brave dies perhaps two thousand deaths if he's intelligent. He simply doesn't mention them.
I did not want to be silent because I had to live in that situation for ever. It would be better to speak and be killed
Let me not be weak and tell others how bleeding I am internally; how day by day it drips, and gathers, and congeals.
Light griefs are plaintive , but great ones are dumb
It's amazing that the heart makes no noise when it cracks.
They are the silent griefs which cut the heart-strings.
There is much pain that is quite noiseless; and vibrations that make human agonies are often a mere whisper in the roar of hurrying existence.
Of themselves diseases come upon men continually by day and by night, bringing mischief to mortals silently; for wise Zeus took away speech from them. So is there no way to escape the will of Zeus
When you're the strong one, people don't give you permission to hurt.
I never yet did hear, That the bruis'd heart was pierced through the ear
There is much pain that is quite noiseless; and vibrations that make human agonies are often a mere whisper in the roar of hurrying existence. There are glances of hatred that stab and raise no cry of murder; robberies that leave man or woman for ever beggared of peace and joy, yet kept secret by the sufferer --committed to no sound except that of low moans in the night, seen in no writing except that made on the face by the slow months of suppressed anguish and early morning tears. Many an inherited sorrow that has marred a life has been breathed into no human ear.
Sometimes the biggest disasters aren't noticed at all – no one's around to write horror stories.
To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.
I am too conscious of being an American to accept public congratulation with good grace or to welcome it except as an occasion for expressing openly a shame which many Americans feel, day after day, helplessly and in silence.
She laughs and looks out the window and I think for a minute that she's going to start to cry. I'm standing by the door and I look over at the Elvis Costello poster, at his eyes, watching her, watching us, and I try to get her away from it, so I tell her to come over here, sit down, and she thinks I want to hug her or something and she comes over to me and puts her arms around my back and says something like 'I think we've all lost some sort of feeling.
When there is pain, there are no words. All pain is the same.
We sing because we can't speak anymore.
A grief without a pang, void, dark and drear, A drowsy, stifled, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet or relief, In word, or sigh, or tear.
A sigh is an amplifier for people who suffer in silence.
I don't speak about my pain. My pain is something that doesn't need to be purged. I want to prevent people from suffering. I don't speak about my suffering. Suffering is something personal and discreet. Also, I know it will never leave me. I don't want it to leave me. It would be a betrayal.
Silence is the tortured man's revenge.
Light griefs do speak, while sorrow's tongue is bound.
Extreme torture is mute, and so we sat silent, petrified, like columns of marble buried under the sand of an earthquake. Neither wished to listen to the other because our heart-threads had become weak and even breathing would have broken them.
We cannot rely upon the silenced to tell us they are suffering.
