Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Bemoaning. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Bemoaning Quotes And Sayings by 92 Authors including Franz Kafka,John Milton,Maggie Stiefvater,John Adams,Sharon Olds for you to enjoy and share.
I feel an unhappiness which almost dismembers me, and at the same time am convinced of its necessity
Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.
Holding tight, denying the fact that eventually we all had to let go.
Grief drives men into habits of serious reflection, sharpens the understanding, and softens the heart
Each hour is a room of shame, and I am
swimming, swimming, holding my head up,
smiling, joking, ashamed, ashamed,
like being naked with the clothed, or being
a child, having to try to behave
while hating the terms of your life.
Grieve. so that you can be free to feel something else.
To mourn deeply for the death of another loosens from myself the petty desire for, and the animal adherence to life. We have gained the end of the philosopher, and view without shrinking the coffin and the pall.
Tears are the silent language of grief
The most disturbing and wasteful emotions in modern life, next to fright, are those which are associated with the idea of blame, directed against the self or against others.
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.
Rest is the ultimate humiliation because in order to rest, we must admit we are not necessary, that the world can get along without us, that God's work does not depend on us.
The road of grief is often long and lonely and many stones need to be moved out of the way, but it is not without its lighter moments.
Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it From its sad visions of the other world Than calling it at moments back to this. The busy have no time for tears.
All by yourself, unable to express the pain of your distress with your deeper inside. You alienate yourself and everybody else.
The grim
egoism (egotism)
of mourning
of suffering
Joyously participate in the sorrows of others.
When you feel sad, you are participating in a venerable experience, to which I, this monument, am dedicated. Your sense of loss and disappointment, of frustrated hopes and grief at your own inadequacy, elevate you to serious company. Do not ignore of throw away your grief
There are moments when you think you will cry forever. You never do. Eventually, sheer physical exhaustion forces you to stop, to settle, to becalm yourself amidst all the mad turbulence of bereavement.
how dismal it is to have no one to go to in the morning to share one's griefs and joys; how hateful when something weighs on you and there's nowhere to lay it down. You know to what I refer. I often tell to my pianoforte what I want to tell to you.
There are silences and silences. No one of them is like another. There is the silence of grief in velvet-draped rooms of a plushly carpeted funeral parlor which is far different from the bleak and terrible silence of grief in a widower's lonely bedroom.
Seeing how sorrow eats you, defeats you.
I'd rather write about laughing than crying,
For laughter makes men human, and courageous.
You mourn, for it is proper to mourn. But your grief serves you; you do not become a slave to grief. You bid the dead farewell, and you continue.
There is no doubt that sorrow brings one down in the world. The aristocratic privilege of silence belongs, you soon find out, to only the happy state- or, at least, to the state when pain keeps within bounds.
To mourn was distressing, but to endeavor to mourn and fail was worse than distress.
To sigh, yet feel no pain; To weep, yet scarce know why; To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by.
I was brooding, boy. Than which there is no richer pastime. It muffles one with rotting plumes. It gives forth sullen music. It is the smell of home.
The mourning of inadequacy is a weeping that catches the attention of God ... The happiest day of my life was when I realized that my own ability, my own goodness, my own morality was insufficient in the sight of God; and I publicly and openly acknowledged my need of Christ.
Resignation, perhaps the most stifling word in the language.
For me, it's owning the fact that I have a sensitive disposition along with a rampant imagination that makes up stories and convinces me they're true. I feel things intensely, and that sometimes brings me on wave of profound sorrow.
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.
Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.
Grief and guilt. A powerful combination. Guilt like a liquid, a thin liquor, seeping everywhere, informing everything, saturating the whole-corrosive, like seawater, scented with the rich stench of ordure and corruption, and carrying with it hard, abrasive shards of grief.
Great griefs exhaust. They discourage us with life. The man into whom they enter feels something taken from him. In youth, their visit is sad; later on, it is ominous.
feeling - I understand.
I am crying over the loss of something I never had.
Wishing that I could stay right here in this moment of not doing, but simply being, forever.
Resentment-why, it is purification; it is a most stinging and painful consciousness!
There is pleasure in calm remembrance of a past sorrow.
Feeling my own humiliation in my heart like the sharp prick of a needle.
The Feeling Being
I'm slowly becoming a repository for decomposing sorrows, regrets, ignored injustice, and forgotten promises. I can still feel its stench. But when I get accustomed to it, I will call it experience.
Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, So I my life conduct. Each morning see some task begun, Each evening see it chucked. But still, in sudden moods of dusk, I hear those great weird wings, Feel vaguely thankful to the vast Stupidity of things.
What might once have been called whining is now exalted as a process of asserting selfhood; self-absorption is regarded as a form of self-expression ...
Man the individual consoles himself for his passing with the thought of the offspring or the works which he leaves behind.
That is the end of absence - the loss of lack. The daydreaming silences in our lives are filled; the burning solitudes are extinguished.
I sit watching the brown oceanic waves of dry country rising into the foothills and I weep monotonously, seasickly. Life is not like the dim ironic stories I like to read, it is like a daytime serial on television. The banality will make you weep as much as anything else.
Moments of solitude, rest for the soul.
Immoderate grief is selfish, harmful, brings no advantage to either the mourner or the mourned, and dishonors the dead.
Modern anxiety is expressed in the longing for what most people fear, even as modern grief is expressed in the unconsummated mourning for what they never really had.
We have such numerous interests in our lives that it is not uncommon, on a single occasion, for the foundations of a happiness that does not yet exist to be laid down alongside the intensification of a grief from which we are still suffering.
I'm feeling how profoundly my family disappointed me and in the end how I retreated, how I became nothing, because that was much less risky than attempting to be something, to be anything in the face of such contempt.
Grief, as I read somewhere once, is a lazy Susan. One day it is heavy and underwater, and the next day it spins and stops at loud and rageful, and the next day at wounded keening, and the next day at numbness, silence.
We cry in our own rooms, remembering a man who will never be here again.The house creaks. Maybe it feels the weight of our grief, maybe the floorboards are buckling because the burden is too heavy.
Wishing there was a Personal God in all this impersonal matter.
Sometimes the purpose of a day is to merely feel our sadness, knowing that as we do, we allow whole layers of grief, like old skin cells to drop off us
Hiding and waiting
For the worst
Or the end
A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.
Grieve nothing in this transitory world
There is a certain pleasure in weeping
Before my daughter was lost to me, I might have attributed his apparent stillness and control to a lack of feeling, but now I know, to my cost, that appearing unfeeling is the price we sometimes pay for being able to speak at all.
Grief is a peculiar emotion.
There is a point when grief exceeds the human capacity to emote, and as a result one is strangely composed-
That melancholy which we feel when we cease to obey orders which, from one day to another, keep the future hidden, and realise that we have at last begun to live in real earnest, as a grown-up person, the life, the only life that any of us has at his disposal.
Disgust at the torments that shackle us, the chains of heavy life.
It was mortifying to find how strong the habit of idle speech may become in one's self. One need not always be saying something in this noisy world.
We are angered even by the full acceptance of our humiliating confessions - how much more by hearing in hard distinct syllables from the lips of a near observer, those confused murmurs which we try to call morbid, and strive against as if they were the oncoming of numbness!
Grief is natural; the absence of all feeling is undesirable, but moderation in grief should be observed, as in the face of all good or evil.
There is a sort of melancholy pleasure to be had out of a funeral, with its pomp and ceremony, but I shrank from a death-bed.
Our silence about grief serves no one. We can't heal if we can't grieve; we can't forgive if we can't grieve. We run from grief because loss scares us, yet our hearts reach toward grief because the broken parts want to mend.
Afternoon with Michel, sorting maman's belongings.
Began the day by looking at her photographs.
A cruel mourning begins again (but had never ended).
To begin again without resting. Sisyphus.
I release all feelings of worry and guilt. Throughout life, the two most futile emotions are guilt for what has been done and worry about what might be done.
Placing my head on my knees, I let the irrational tears fall unrestrained. I am crying over the loss of something I never had. How ridiculous. Mourning something that never was - my dashed hopes, my dashed dreams, and my soured expectations.
Mourn for me rather as living than as dead.
There is a certain amount of purpose, acquiescence, and satisfaction in nursing one's melancholy.
Melancholy and remorse forms the deep leaden keel which enables us to sail into the wind of reality.
I have protracted my work till most of those whom I wished to please have sunk into the grave, and success and miscarriage are empty sounds: I therefore dismiss it with frigid tranquillity, having little to fear or hope from censure or from praise.
There's no use in weeping,
Though we are condemned to part:
There's such a thing as keeping,
A remembrance in one's heart ...
What is more miserable than discontent?
Ritual of Personal Reflection.
She grieves sincerely who grieves unseen.
Wailing and lamentation befit those who stand before the throne of life and depart without leaving in its hands a drop of the sweat of their brows or the blood of their hearts.
Moreover, as usual, she wasn't able to live in the moment. Maybe that's what grief is: a permanent disconnect from here and now. She looked at the games adults played and felt detached. It was easy to tell herself: "I'm not here.".
We feign pity when we want to demonstrate our ascendancy over feelings of hostility: but usually in vain. Whenever we notice this,there is an accompanying surge in those hostile sensations.
But it's a changeable world! When we consider how great our sorrow seem, and how small they are; how we think we shall die of grief, and how quickly we forget, I think we ought to be ashamed of ourselves and our fickle-heartedness. For, after all, what business has Time to bring us consolation?
Sadness of love without release.
Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance.
Grief walks upon the heels of pleasure; married in haste, we repent at leisure.
Most people imagine that a man suffers because out of the blue, Death snatches away the woman he loves. But his real suffering is less futile; it comes from the discovery that grief, too, cannot last. Even grief is vanity!
On my family: My mother buries her grief in her work. Having no work, grief buries me.
It is the very wantonness of folly for a man to search out the frets and burdens of his calling and give his mind every day to a consideration of them. They belong to human life. They are inevitable. Brooding only gives them strength.
In the monotony of everyday existence grief comes as a holiday, and a fire is an entertainment. A scratch embellishes an empty face.
Melancholy and remorse form the deep leaden keel which enables us to sail into the wind of reality; we run aground sooner than the flat-bottomed pleasure-lovers but we venture out in weather that would sink them and we choose our direction.
Grieving is a way of self-care.
Grief that is dazed and speechless is out of fashion: the modern woman mourns her husband loudly and tells you the whole story of his death, which distresses her so much that she forgets not the slightest detail about it.
Grief is a disease. We were riddled with its pockmarks, tormented by its fevers, broken by its blows. It ate at us like maggots, attacked us like lice- we scratched ourselves to the edge of madness. In the process we became as withered as crickets, as tired as old dogs.
crying, and go in the toilet bowl
The contemplative life is often miserable. One must act more, think less, and not watch oneself live.
I rest in the light of forgiveness. I forgive myself and others for that which is done (and better left undone) and also that which is not done (and better if done). I give myself permission to enjoy this moment without guilt. I freely release all uncertainty, regret, and fear.
Protecting myself from the influx of painful stimuli, just give me space and I shall be okay.
Nothing is more interesting than repressed emotion. The appearance of sardonic coldness and stoicism which has deceived you is but a hollow mockery; beneath it I secrete a maelstrom of impassioned feeling and a mausoleum of blighted hopes.