Best 1203 quotes in «tragedy quotes» category

Grief is times bailiff sent to evict you from your old life. Its black warrant demands of you hard labour. There can be no escape of reprieve. You must toil laying down the foundation stones of acceptance, stone by stone, until you have paved your way to your new life.

Had he not resembled My father as he slept I had done't!" Macbeth

Hands that never touch. Lips that never meet. The Almost Lovers, never to be.

Hate is a bottomless cup; I will pour and pour

Have you ever thought, when something dreadful happens, "a moment ago, things were not like this; let it be then, not now, anything but now?" And you try and try to remake then, but you know you can't. So you try to hold the moment quite still and not let it move on and show itself. - Nine Coaches Waiting

Heaven-gates are not so highly arched As princes' palaces; they that enter there Must go upon their knees.

He hadn't known her, didn't know her, of course. There wasn't the time.

Hélas! de vos malheurs innocente ou coupable, / De quoi pour vous sauver n'étais-je point capable?

Here's how you think about it: Together you constructed many things throughout your life. Then her body disappeared, but the constructions still remain. Human beings die: That's natural. But to accept her death is to lose all hope.

Her mother wears it in her eyes: the grief, the regrets, the guilt. She has the body of a twenty-year-old. Eyes like she’s fifty. Dark purple circles. Wrinkle wings along the edges. This woman who used to fill her mind with princess stories, castles and dragons and magic rings that transported Lyric to other worlds. But there are no castles on the southeast side. And the only princesses in Grand Rapids are white and Dutch and oblivious to this life.

her heart was the defendant,in the court waiting for the last decision and the judge was th mind.is it the end of love

Her occupation was the worst that anyone could think of. No guest in the park had to think of it because, unlike the wandering dwarf women, her job had no bearing on paper.

Her tragedy hadn't made her more approachable, and in fact lent her the unknowable quality of a person who had suffered more than could be expressed.

He's been through so much and to watch that boy suffer makes me wish this world wasn't so cruel.

He who climbs upon the highest mountains laughs at all tragedies, real or imaginary.

He's opening a door, but he already knows I won't walk through. The power of Bodee is in the way he reads me, sees through me, and then understands the truth behind the facade. He's the guy who can walk straight through the House of Mirrors on the first try. It's almost annoying. No one should ride tragedy like a pro surfer while I drown.

He unclenched his fists and dropped her worries, unable to catch them for her. But she picked them back up and dusted them off. She wants to be able to hold them herself now.

He thought perhaps it was a woman's way, to come out of such a storm of emotion and pain as if she were a ship emerging onto calm seas. She had seemed, not at peace, but emptied of sorrow. As if she had run out of that particular emotion and no other one arose to take its place.

He wishes he could remember everything. Anything. He doesn’t sense a bone in his body that can feel compassion or worthiness. Self-pity hides away as well, the lowest form of emotion not even capable of resting in his wrecked mind.

His thoughts are unfathomable & her emotions are all over the place. Oh! The tragedy of Love.

His life was a party which tragically came to an early end.

History is orphan. It can speak, but cannot hear. It can give, but cannot take. Its wounds and tragedies can be read and known, but cannot be avoided or cured.

His eyes were closing again, all of their own accord, so that he lay in red, pain-filled darkness. It occured to him that he was dying and he didn’t care. ‘He’s alive!’ Blue said again ‘He’s breathing!’ ‘I can’t see him breathing.

Hope, in general, is dangerous. Hope can be the loose thread that pulls apart your sanity.

How could it be? For weeks he'd run himself ragged, his only goal to keep her safe until the moment when he could no longer offer her protection. Now that moment had come and gone- and so did Luce

How beautiful the tragic seems when it is beneath a mask, but when it appears so nakedly before me and... when I am so forcibly implicated... I don't know whether I care for it so much. Somehow or other it is as though I were torturing myself. ("Thirty-Three Abominations")

How does the world even keep going with so much pain and tragedy everywhere?

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world.

How tragic it is to find that an entire lifetime is wasted in pursuit of distractions while purpose is neglected.

How now! Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand." Lady Macbeth

I am a playwright who does not write comedies, or tragedies.

I am just an strong example of tragedy in eyes of others.

I am dwelling on things I love, even if a measure of tragedy is stitched into everything, if you follow the thread long enough

I became utterly addicted to her and the escape from reality we provided each other. Throughout the years, she had boyfriends and I had girlfriends, but there wasn't a single night that I didn’t hear her voice.

I am not wise enough to know if there is ever purpose in tragedy, if there is ever virtue in resisting it. If it cannot be overcome, then grief has beaten you, and you are right to say so.

I’d accepted my judgment without question. Agreed to live a mortal life. I didn’t know my memories would come with me; didn’t know I’d relive them every day. Death would have been more merciful.

'Better to have loved and lost,' my ass. Anyone parroting that little platitude had obviously never lost anyone of consequence.

I can’t imagine that I’m supposed to get over it , like hopping a low stone wall; if Thursday was a barrier of some kind, it was made of razor wire, which I did not bound over but thrash through, leaving me in flayed pieces and on the other side of something only in a temporal sense.

I'd do anything to do it all over again, even if it ended this way still. Had I a choice, you know I would not go.

I didn't believe in gravity until I met you.

I believe that life is full of tragedy. Some lives more than others. But I also believe that comfort can be found with the people that love you . . . if you're willing to let them give it.

I cannot heave my heart into my mouth. I love your majesty according to my bond; no more no less.

I despise common sense. I’ve seen the world from every possible angle. This cruel, ridiculous, beautiful world.

I do have a point to all this,” she continues. “There are like twenty people in that waiting room right now. Some of them are related to you. Some of them are not. But we’re all your family.” She stops now. Leans over me so that the wisps of her hair tickle my face. She kisses me on the forehead. “You still have a family,” she whispers.

I don't really wanna know what makes you leave, or when you'll be back. I just wanna know what will make me cry at your arrival.

I don't like feeling sorry for myself. That's not who I am. And most of the time I don't feel that way. Instead, I am grateful for having at least found you. We could have flashed by one another like two pieces of cosmic dust. God or the universe or whatever one chooses to label the great systems of balance and order does not recognize Earth-time. To the universe, four days is no different than four billion light years. I try to keep that in mind. But, I am, after all, a man. And all the philosophic rationalizations I can conjure up do not keep me from wanting you, every day, every moment, the merciless wail of time, of time I can never spend with you, deep within my head. I love you, profoundly and completely. And I always will. The last cowboy, Robert

I don't want to sew. How else will the buttons get onto the coat?

If I had spoken to him out loud, he would have understood the tragic fate of those who came back, left over, living dead. You must look at them carefully. Their appearance is deceptive. They are smugglers. They look like the others. They eat, they laugh, they love. The seek money, fame, love. Like the other. But it isn't true; they are playing, sometimes without even knowing it. Anyone who has seen what THEY have seen cannot be like the others, cannot laugh, love, pray, bargain, suffer, have fun, or forget. Like the others. You have to watch them carefully when they pass by an innocent-looking smokestack, or when they lift a piece of bread to their mouths. Something in them shudders and makes you turn your eyes away. These people have been amputated; they haven't lost their legs or eyes, but their will and their taste for life. The things they have seen will come to the surface again sooner or later. And then the world will be frightened and won't dare look these spiritual cripples in the eye.

I’d watched the election of Barack Obama with them, in Harlem: the celebration had spilled out onto the streets and erupted into dancing, outdoor champagne-drinking, euphoria. This [the 1/21/17 Women's March on Washington, DC] was different. It was like laughter at a funeral—what else can you do but hold on to who you are and who you love? What can you do but try to stay sane and fight like hell for what life is all about?

If comedy is tragedy plus time, I need more fucking time. But I would really settle for less fucking tragedy.” ~ Jon Stewart