Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Devastation. 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 Devastation Quotes And Sayings by 96 Authors including Ursula K. Le Guin,John Lennon,Kathleen Blanco,Kilroy J. Oldster,Cheryl Strayed for you to enjoy and share.
My world, my Earth is a ruin. A planet spoiled by the human species. We multiplied and fought and gobbled until there was nothing left, and then we died. We controlled neither appetite nor violence; we did not adapt. We destroyed ourselves. But we destroyed the world first.
Pools of sorrow. Waves of joy.
We have witnessed the most extraordinary devastation. The magnitude of the situation is unbelievable. It's just heartbreaking.
Fateful encounters with a cruel world reveal our character. No human is immune from heartbreaking loss. Regardless of our socioeconomic status, eventually everybody shall suffer a grievous personal loss, a body blow that inflicts pain of inexpressible magnitude.
The obliterated place is equal parts destruction and creation. The obliterated place is pitch black and bright light. It is water and parched earth. It is mud and it is manna. The real work of deep grief is making a home there.
And of storehouses and of freight-trains - destruction
Sobs force their way out of my throat. I feel like I'm trapped in a disaster movie where everything is shriveling into darkness and ash. Sunflowers are being uprooted. Puppies are being trampled. Whole cities are crumbling to dust.
It is all ash and dry leaves and grief gone like an ocean liner.
With destruction comes renovation.
Rage, hate, shock, grief, anguish, terror, scorn, amusement, combinations of them, and nothing.
Whatever is destroyed, the act of destruction does not vary much. Beauty if vapour from the pit of death.
It was beyond desolate: it was where desolation goes to be by itself.
Sweeping from butcher's stalls, dung, guts, and blood,
Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud,
Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood.
Thousands of lives were suddenly ended by evil, despicable acts of terror. The pictures of airplanes flying into buildings, fires burning, huge structures collapsing, have filled us with disbelief, terrible sadness and a quiet, unyielding anger.
Despair ... It hides away propagates, expands, and finally explodes
There are flood and drought over the eyes and in the mouth, dead water and dead sand contending for the upper hand. The parched eviscerate soil gapes at the vanity of toil, laughs without mirth. This is the death of the earth.
To the destruction of what is.
Disaster appears, to crush one man now, but afterward another.
Love beyond the damage.
Millions of fathers in rain
Millions of mothers in pain
Millions of brothers in woe
Millions of sisters nowhere to go
Millions of daughters walk in the mud
Millions of children wash in the flood
A million girls vomit and groan
Millions of families hopeless alone
Whole sight; or all the rest is desolation.
Not all the ravages caused by our merciless age are tangible ones. The subtler forms of destruction, those involving only the human spirit, are the most to be dreaded.
Innocent little villages full of homes torn and trampled under foot and burned!" the Duchess almost cried out. "And worse things than that - worse things!
After the storm the city lies becalmed. It is a sunny morning, still and cold. Branches litter the streets like broken limbs. People clear away the wreckage. They swarm around like ants whose anthill has been scuffed; how doggedly they rebuild their lives.
Death and worse happened on the plains.
I could not separate the Bird Refuge from my family. Devastation respects no boundaries. The landscape of my childhood and the landscape of my family, the two things I had always regarded as bedrock, were now subject to change. Quicksand.
Grief is terror, in its most undiluted form.
Words are powerless when confronted by catastrophe; they're pitiable, wretched, and easily distorted
War.
Such a little word, such a depth of agony. Blood, death, conquest, starvation, plague, and horror.
Sink, suffer, self-destruct
Rise stronger, reconstruct
The dam of my eyes broke, and tears flooded the land.
Sorrow, like rain makes roses and mud.
The first light of day today revealed what we had feared. The devastation is greater than our worst fears. It's just totally overwhelming.
How was it that destruction could be so beautiful? Was there something in the scale of it? Was there some shadow in people, lusting for it? Or was it just a coincidental combination of the elements, the final proof that beauty has no moral dimension?
Feelings of depression; feelings of frustration; feelings of emptiness in the face of all this randomness - done down by the haphazard, yet again.
The world breaks everyone.
The effect of this cannot be understood without being there. The beauty of it cannot be understood, either, and when you see beauty in desolation it changes something inside you. Desolation tries to colonize you.
My brain had begun to endure its familiar siege: panic and dislocation, and a sense that my thought processes were being engulfed by a toxic and unnameable tide that obliterated any enjoyable response to the living world.
ruins." A flush spread up
The disaster ruins everything, all the while leaving everything intact.
Poverty blights whole cities; spreads horrible pestilences; strikes dead the very souls of all who come within sight, sound, or smell of it
Sorrow beyond dreams.
No one can depict desolation who hasn't inhabited desolation and observed it very closely. Things condemned have a terrible beauty.
The horror had begun.
But the truth is that I'm gloomy - gloomier than I ever was during the war. Everything is so broken, Sophie: the roads, the buildings, the people. Especially the people.
Destruction is like a snow-ball rolled down a Hill, for its Bulk encreases by its own swiftness and thus Disorder spreads.
This time the destruction was so complete ...
That nothing at all was left in the world
Except one man
And one woman
And one flower
Everywhere, within man and without, there is devastation, instability, chaos, and evidence of some prolonged rout.
What nourishes me, destroys me
It's like looking into a full-length mirror and seeing nothing but pure beauty in the reflection ... and then watching helplessly as it shatters into a thousand pieces before your eyes, knowing that you can do nothing to keep it from breaking ...
Society proceeds like the ocean. After a disaster, it resume its wonted level and rhythms; its devouring interests efface all traces of damage.
The pain decimated me.
White as a winding sheet, Masks blowing down the street: Moscow, Paris London, Vienna all are undone. The drums of death are mumbling, rumbling, and tumbling, Mumbling, rumbling, and tumbling, The world's floors are quaking, crumbling and breaking.
Stories heard but not recalled. Letters too. Words filling my head. Fragmenting like artillery shells. Shrapnel, like syllables, flying everywhere. Terrible syllables. Sharp cracked. Traveling at murderous speed. Tearing through it all in a very, very bad inreparable way.
When there is destruction, hope for a great creations.
I have been astonished to see how nature uses devastation to stimulate new growth, slowly but persistently healing her own wounds.
Nature is a catchment of sorrows.
Life is much the same when it's going well
resonant and unremarkable. But who, not under disaster's seal, can understand what life is like when it begins to crumble?
Life's bruises demythologise us all. The earth gapes.
Earth felt the wound; and Nature from her seat, Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe That all was lost.
My heart is shattered, an all that's left are jagged shards.
The next morning, the earth was strewn with debris from the windstorm the night before. An audience of trees looked down on severed limbs cast about the ground, their hunched and beaten postures reminding me of a congregation of amputees gathered in the wake of a war.
Death. Starvation. Blindness. Another grim day in our village.
The commercial storm leaves its path strewn with ruin. When it is over there is calm, but a dull, heavy calm.
The mortal world is in a state of Beautiful Chaos and destruction, which will ultimately lead to an exquisite end.
Afghanistan had collapsed and everyone's life now lies broken at different levels within the rubble.
And that's what I wanted: obliteration. Decimation. Just an instant smear of me right out of all this rising and falling and nothing changing that feels like living.
We love the things that destroy us, because in that destruction we truly feel alive.
I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppled masonry, and time one livid final flame.
Life had jerked the carpet out from underneath us and left a shattered mess
I wonder now how we got by when you weren't here."
"I have no doubt the devastation was widespread, the suffering universal."
"Indeed, it was the Dark Ages in the annals of Mrs. Dawlish's house. Ignorance was thick on the ground, and unenlkghtenment befogged all the windows.
The Sorrow and the Pity,
Defaced ruins of architecture and statuary, like the wrinkles of decrepitude of a once beautiful woman, only make one regret that one did not see them when they were enchanting.
If you've ever come across a tree that you've lived with for many years and then one day it's blown over, there's incredible shock and violence about that.
My heart shatters. My world shatters.
you will lose what you value most.
It wasn't my life or even Dimitri's life.
what you value most
It was his soul.
blood. There was so much blood.
Loss is the shocking catalyst of transformation.
The brutal intrusion of officialdom into private devastation.
You have seen the suffering that creates the greatest and most beautiful of things. It also creates the greatest of evils.
The things that mattered
Were broken and shattered
One by one
I have this obsession with destruction.
Shatter all your fear.
Fragile things become undone at a frightening speed.
And the giants fall one by one, to fill the cup of Rot and Ruin. A city laid waste by the feats of man, never to rise again.
Catastrophes have a somber way of arranging things.
We're all damaged. Every single beautiful, stupid, precious one of us. Damaged, damaged, damaged.
To be wrecked begins with an experience that pulls you out of your comfort zone and self-centeredness, whether you want it or not.
The destruction of Wonderland, is the destruction of me?!
They who were so important, who wanted to create the world, are dumbfounded; everything crumbles.
As the whirlwind in its fury teareth up trees, and deformeth the face of nature, or as an earthquake in its convulsions overturneth whole cities; so the rage of an angry man throweth mischief around him.
When your world feels like it's been shattered to a million pieces, it doesn't hurt any less or more because of the details.
Destruction is also creation.
Heart cannot think what outrage and what cries, with black smoke and flashing fire, the beast threw forth, turning the whole world to darkness.
areas of deepest human suffering, those
The disaster ... is what escapes the very possibility of experience - it is the limit of writing. This must be repeated: the disaster de-scribes.
The Wretched of the Earth is an explosion.
There was something exquisite and poetic about those fucking catastrophes.
Within environments capable of sustaining humans, there are constant tsunamis, volcanoes, earthquakes, hurricanes, mudslides, poisonous mushrooms, and lawyers, all of which make human life painfully fragile.
What lies before me is the hollow husk of a memory turned nightmare, with bleached colors, crumbling structures, and rot corrupting everything it touches. This is the work of Mother Nature gone insane, exacting her revenge and delving deeper into madness in the process.
Within minutes, mounds of concrete and earth were stacked and piled. The streets were ruptured veins. Blood streamed till it was dried on the road, and the bodies were stuck there, like driftwood after the flood.