Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Whimpering. 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 Whimpering Quotes And Sayings by 95 Authors including Annabel Crabb,Charlaine Harris,C.l.stone,K. Bromberg,Wendy Kaminer for you to enjoy and share.
smouldering away in a fit of impotent rage
My eyes flew open, and I pushed back against rock-hard shoulders. I let out a little squeak of horror.
"It's me," said a familiar voice.
... "Eric, what are you doing here?"
"Snuggling.
Trouble. Sweetheart. Sang. Don't. Don't slip away." He sniffed.
I felt a droplet meeting my forehead.
Gabriel was crying.
"I need you," he whispered. "Comeback to me. I need you.
feeling - I understand.
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 ...
I wonder what sound a breaking heart makes?
A lonely impulse of delight
Sadness of not knowing enough words to [express what you mean] ...
She had to work to find her outrage again. When she did, it was whimpering in delight.
BENEVOLENCE - When the sobbing of SELF PITY crosses over into the WEEPING FOR MANKIND
The sadness at the corners of the unsmiling crimson mouth
What is so real as the cry of a child?
theatrical groan of disappointment. Szacki
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!
Tears are the silent language of grief
The trembling increased, a moan of grief was heard, nothing articulate - as a bird in the night sometimes laments alone.
The quivering
of Psyche's butterflies.
Crying into the sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt like the world's saddest lumberjack.
You're going to hurt yourself."
She worked up a few tears, letting them glisten on her long dark lashes. "You're hurting me."
"Not yet," Trace told her, unmoved by the false show of emotion. "But the idea of putting you over my knee gets more tempting by the second.
This howling mouth, this head which rolls back and tries to escape.
Where a blood relation sobs, an intimate friend should choke up, a distant acquaintance should sigh, a stranger should merely fumble sympathetically with his handkerchief.
Resignation, perhaps the most stifling word in the language.
To herself and wiping tears from her eyes, which turned
Tears began to surge up into her eyes, and she found herself doubling up her fists, with the thumbs inside, as she had done as a child; she felt her jaw wobble, and when she spoke her voice could hardly be heard.
Cuddles screamed. It wasn't a braying noise, it was an ear-slapping shriek of pure donkey outrage, like someone got hold of a foghorn and tried to strangle it.
You pout like a trout in a drought ... can't get out.
You want to scream, but fish can't shout.
The others wolves would devour me if they could know that my roar is, in reality, a crying.
Make me howl, make me scream,
Things are never what they seem.
Lay me out, end the pain,
Now I'll never be the same.
Deep inside, there I cry,
Yet you still just pass me by.
Can't you see, this is me,
And I'm Howling! I'm Howling! I'm Howling!
A silent cry of the inmost heart for the mother, like the lowing of a calf in the twilight, - this
When words are too heavy for the mouth, the soul weeps in agony
Kaethe Schwehn's poignant memoir explores longing, both spiritual and physical, community and faith, in prose that is calm, lovely, and filled with clear-eyed honesty and grace. Tailings is simply an exquisite book.
What is he aching to do? What are we all aching to do? What do we want? She didn't know. She yawned. She was sleepy. It was too much. Nobody could tell. Nobody would ever tell. It was all over. She was eighteen and most lovely, and lost.
Watching me, judging me, smelling the crippling failure oozing from my skin, my desperation clawing and all-consuming panic drenching me as I gape in horror at the world and wonder why everyone is smiling and looking at me with secret knowledge of my aching shame.
Mourning the old glad days before they knew
What evil things the heart of man could dream, and dreaming do.
I clench my teeth as tears come. I am fed up. I am fed up with tears and weakness. But there isn't much I can do to stop them. ~ 'Tris
There's no talking. No laughing. Nothing but eager hands and sad eyes.
Snarling like a chainsaw trying to sing opera
Don't say mourning. It's too psychoanalytic. I'm not mourning. I'm suffering.
Desperation seeps through the seams of fear.
We cry to release the soul of its pain.
Tears ready to do duty at a minute's notice.
I don't want to cry. Everyone will make note of my tears and I'll be marked as an easy target. A weakling. I will give no one that satisfaction.
Being. Not being. Giving in. Holding out. No matter what I do, it hurts.
Evoke at painful junctures, when discouragement threatens to raise its head, the image of a vast cretinous mouth, red blubber and slobbering, in solitary confinement, extruding indefatigably, with a noise of wet kisses and washing in a tub, the words that obstruct it.
Something like laughter. That a flower could be this small, this fleeting, that a snowflake could be so large, so persistent. The improbable simplicity. I groaned. Why don't we have a word for the utterance between laughing and crying?
A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,
We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;
But were we burdened with light weight of pain,
As much or more we should ourselves complain.
I hear my silence talked of in every lane;
The suppression of a cry is itself a cry of pain.
Ah! The anguish, the vile rage, the despair
Of not being able to express
With a shout, an extreme and bitter shout,
The bleeding of my heart.
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.
The kind of cry a woman gave when a man conquered her and she realized she loved it.
Then, cutting across it all like a stick through the sand, a child's voice wailed, an acute, high-pitched sound, such as a small animal makes when, out of sheer boredom, you break its leg.
I wanted you to stop." "I was encouraged by you breathlessly moaning my name." I spun on my foot. "I wasn't moaning your name. I was shrieking in alarm." "That was the sexiest throaty shrieking I've ever heard." "You need to get out more.
How the little piglets would grunt if they knew how the old boar suffered.
Klaus Wulfenbach: Was my son upset? Bangladesh DuPree: Oh, him? Yeah! He's all set to be a hero and rescue her
and then he finds out he'd need fireplace tongs to get her undressed? Yeah, upset is the word.
No more crying. It's all wetness and no comfort at all.
Oh, dry the glistening tear that dues that marshal cheek
Thy loving childern here in them thy comfort seek
With sympathetic care their arms around the creep,
For oh they can not bear to see their father weep
My wails of sorrow
are tormenting my soul
Stephen, why are you shivering?'
'I don't know, my darling.'
'Mary, why are you crying?'
'I don't know, Stephen.'
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The moan of the whip-poor-will from the hillside; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm; the dreary hooting of the screechowl.
Trifling trouble find utterance; deeply felt pangs are silent.
I ache to cry ... ache so much, it takes my breath away.
Yielding, like ice about to melt.
What is the sound of an eighty-nine-year-old heart breaking?
Children, our lives have been gongs striking; clamour and boasting; cries of despair; blows on the nape of the neck in gardens.
Whether I pound or am being pounded, all the same there will be moaning!
an incantation of hatred.
Howl's voice was presently heard shouting weakly, Help me, someone! I'm dying from neglect up here!
crying, and go in the toilet bowl
, her mouth working mutely like the valve of an undersea creature
Her brother is crying, he is wretched and broken. Though his sobs are barely audible, he is weeping with absolute and total abandon. Such a naked display of emotion is both alarming and frightening.
You were crying. It's a terrible thing, loving the sea."
"Yes," she whispered, her eyes straying to it. Waves gathered and broke invisibly in the dark, reaching toward her, pulling back. They were never silent, they never spoke.
He was weeping. Although 'weeping' really is to small a word for the activity the kind had undertaken. Tears were cascading from his eyes. A small puddle had formed at his feet. I am not exaggerating. The king, it seemed, was intent on crying himself a river.
That's my life: screaming without making a sound.
A sound of cornered-animal fear and hate and surrender and defiance ... like the last sound the treed and shot and falling animal makes as the dogs get him, when he finally doesn't care about anything but himself and his dying.
With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs. A burly rough pursues with booted strides. He stumbles on the steps, recovers, plunges into gloom. Weak squeaks of laughter are heard, weaker.)_ THE BAWD: _(Her wolfeyes shining)_
To weep is a sign of weakness, of bondage.
Their heart grew cold
they let their wings down
Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower That faints into itself at evening hour:
Everybody cryin' mercy / When they don't know the meaning of the word.
Eventually, when the first phase of the process ended, she began to cry. She cried quietly, even silently, burring her face in her hands, her shoulder quivering, as if she wanted to be sure that no one else in the world could tell that she was crying.
Misery is a river of tears that whispers my name in a constant hiss.
Moaning, delirious with my own pleasure. I know that I'm selling my soul to him at this very moment.
No more to say, and nothing to weep for
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.
My dignified weeping gives way to full-on ugliness, my mouth open and my face contorted and sounds like a dying animal coming from my throat.
Anguish is the universal language
When your heart breaks and you lose absolutely everything you have left in life. The only thing you can do is cry.
Sometimes, when you are worn down, day after day, relentlessly, with no reprieve for years piled on years, sometimes you lose everything but the ability to cry.
Why are you crying?"
"I was reading.
Whining is anger through a small opening.
What is more miserable than discontent?
Quite without warning, I began to cry. No sobbing, no throat-gripping spasms. Water simply welled in my eyes and flowed down my cheeks, slow as cold honey. A quiet acknowledgment of despair as things spiraled slowly out of control.
I am hurting. The tears don't come anymore. They don't have the guts to anymore. I know that if I fail at that, it will mean the death of me.
Sorrow, like a heavy ringing bell, once set on ringing, with its own weight goes; then little strength rings out the doleful knell.
I wonder at the idleness of tears.
Embracing the torture, as I'm assaulted by my own thoughts. Like a locust giving birth to earworms. Eeeeew!
So comes a reck'ning when the banquet's o'er, The dreadful reckn'ning, and men smile no more.
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.
Since I was cut from the reedbed I have made this crying sound. Anyone separated from someone he loves understands what I say. Anyone pulled from a Source longs to go back.
senseless, senseless coughs of emotion