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Mourning Quotes

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Mourning Quotes

“Anne went up the narrow stairs and into that little east room with a full heart. It was as a shrine to her. Here her mother had dreamed the exquisite, happy dreams of anticipated motherhood; here that red sunrise light had fallen over both of them in the sacred hour of birth; here her mother had died. Anne looked about her reverently, her eyes dim with tears. It was for her one of the jewelled hours of life that gleam out radiantly forever in memory.”

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Book:Anne of the Island
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“Passati tre mesi Stransom si sentì così solo che tornò là; forse, pensava, dopo esser stati per anni i suoi migliori amici, i suoi Morti non si sarebbero lasciati abbandonare senza prima adoperarsi per lui ancora una volta. E li ritrovò come li aveva lasciati, in quel loro alto effluvio di luce, il vivido drappello che già, quando era in vena di paragoni tra cose grandi e piccole, lo aveva indotto a vederli come un manipolo di fari sul bordo dell’oceano della vita.”

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Book:The Altar of the Dead
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“Mary Antrim non era l’unico fantasma della sua vita. Forse, rispetto alla maggioranza degli uomini, non erano molte le persone che gli erano mancate, ma per lui queste perdite avevano contato di più. Anche se non l’aveva toccato così da vicino, in un certo modo la morte aveva lasciato nel suo animo un’impronta più profonda. A poco a poco egli aveva preso l’abitudine di soffermarsi sui suoi morti ad uno ad uno, e piuttosto presto nella vita aveva cominciato a pensare che andasse fatto qualcosa per loro. E loro erano lì, accanto a lui, forti di quell’essenza semplificata, più intensa, di quell’assenza consapevole, di quella pazienza eloquente, così corporei e presenti che pareva avessero soltanto perduto l’uso della parola. Quando non li si percepiva più, quando ogni suono cessava, era come fosse ancora lì, in terra, il loro purgatorio; chiedevano così poco, poveretti, che ricevevano ancor meno, e morivano di nuovo, morivano ogni giorno del duro trattamento che riservava loro la vita. Per loro nulla era stato predisposto: non avevano prerogative né onori, nessun rifugio, nessuna salvaguardia. A provvedere ai vivi c’erano pur sempre anche i più egoisti tra gli uomini; ma nessuno, nemmeno chi era ritenuto più generoso, faceva nulla per quegli altri. E così, col passare degli anni, andò maturando in George Stransom una risoluzione: lui sì, almeno, avrebbe fatto qualcosa, l’avrebbe fatto cioè per i suoi morti; e nell’adempiere a quel sommo atto di misericordia”

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Book:The Altar of the Dead
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“Elena never understood why people chose caskets made of noble hardwoods that would take a long time to break down. If so many people believe that we are all of dust and to dust must turn again, why delay the return? They pick fancy caskets just to show off, she thinks, why would they do it otherwise, if they know neither the coffin nor what's inside it are destined to last but to rot, to be eaten by worms, both the wood and the body that no longer hold the person it was, a body that no longer belongs to anyone, like an empty bag, incomplete, a pod without seeds.”

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Book:Elena Knows
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“The nymph who laments, guardian of our spring of tears, Dares come only within the compass of praising, of song, - She who watches over the settling of the precipitate, That it be clear, on that same rock That bears the gates and the altars. - See, about her shoulders so tranquil there rises The sensation that she must be the youngest Of those sisters, to be disposed so. Exultation knows, and fierce Desire acknowledges, - Only Lamentation must still learn; with a maiden’s hand She counts out the old sorrows through the night. But suddenly, slantwise and unpractised, She holds aloft a constellation of our voices Against the heavens, left unobscured by her breath.”

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Book:Letters to a Young Poet
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“Teardrop Swarm by Stewart Stafford Entombed by verdant prison bars, On land where I once held sway, Drowned in Death's tearful surf, In which we all get swept away. Weep at a rock bearing my name, A vacant space once familiar there, Lost and lingered in limbo longing, Planted in pastures, green and fair. Arch headstones are defiant cliffs, For Reaper's wrath to crash upon, A foundling rage's pristine triumph, In foam white light, multitudes gone. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”

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Author:Stewart Stafford
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“It was the season Ching Ming--clearness and brightness—when spirits returned from the netherworld, essences of all sorts abounded and filial sons journeyed home to their ancestral shrines to pay homage. The Wang widow, Siao lan, whose husband died on their wedding night, was on her third and final year of mourning. Her weeping-singing rent asunder the twilight calm, "O master, thou are cruel. O father, curse the day of my birth. Fate is a playful warlock. One day the fresh young bride, tomorrow, an empty-bowl widow.”

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Book:Woman of Am-kaw and Other Stories
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“One at a time, each of the crow left the circle and hopped into the surrounding thicket, emerging with a small twig or a piece of dried grass. One by one, they placed their offering on top of the body, hiding the twisted wings and the open beak that lay glinting like an obsidian shard in the low sun. More and more crows began to arrive, each bringing, something to lay on the corpse, until the clearing was a sea of glossy backs. You'd told me once that crows mourn their dead. You'd never told me how. Each bird laid their gift atop the dead crow and flew off. I did not yet know that, sometimes, it is impossible to mourn in the presence of others. When all the crows had left their offerings, the crowd dissolved into the twilight.”

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Book:The Thirty Names of Night
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“The Mourner by Stewart Stafford Waxen candles flickered, burning, I found myself alone in mourning, Instinct urged me to turn around, Insistent feet kept walking down. A lonely casket at the altar lay, Not a soul came to mourn or pray, A surge of pity pierced my heart, Incense bade me dearly depart. Empty pews where no one stayed, I slowly illuminated the coffin shade, Blackout! Icy hands gripped tight: “Welcome to our endless night!” © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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Author:Stewart Stafford
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“Mâini bătătorite de sapă, de munci grele, mâini care luaseră pe încetul înfățișarea și culoarea pământului uscat și crăpat. Acum, reci, se odihnesc: nu se vor mai clinti niciodată... Acolo, în țărână, peste ani de zile, când vor rămâne numai un schelet deșirat, oasele mâinilor au să se mai odihnească încă, pe gratiile coastelor, împreunate, neclintite, așa cum niciodată nu s-au odihnit.”

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Book:Întunecare vol. 1
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“She saw the birth unfolding, saw the small creature with those strangely wise eyes that seemed to belong to every newborn. And then the years rushing on, the child growing, faces taking the shape they would carry into old age. But not all. As mother after mother stepped through her, futures flashed bright, and some died quickly indeed. Fraught, flickering sparks, ebbing, winking out, darkness rushing in. And at these she cried out, filled with anguish even as she understood that souls travelled countless journeys, of which only one could be known by a mortal, so many, in countless perturbations, and that the loss belonged only to others, never to the child itself, for in its inarticulate, ineffable wisdom, understanding was absolute; the passage of life that seemed tragically short could well be the perfect duration, the experience complete. Others, however, died in violence, and this was a crime, an outrage against life itself. Here, among these souls, there was fury, shock, denial. There was railing, struggling, bitter defiance.”

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Book:Toll the Hounds
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“Our contemporary Western celebrations forget the dead altogether, or at least remove them from any association with grief and loss. They offer no comfort to those who mourn. We are, after all, a society that has done all it can to erase death, to pursue youth to the bitter end, and to sideline the elderly and infirm. For most of us, the old tradition of laying out our own dead is long forgotten, and the idea that we might be intimate with death is now some kind of a gothic joke. Today's Halloween simply reflects what we secretly think—that death is a surrender to decay that makes us monsters.”

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Book:Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times
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