How can I begin to tell you how much I miss you without using those three common words that can't even start to express the magnitude nor the depth of my emotions. How can I write in my own blood while wanting to revert its color. The color of blood is similar to "I miss you". It has been raped by writers and lovers constantly, ever since Cain and Abel. I want to be able to create a new alphabet that can simply stand in front of you without bowing. I want to use new metaphors that would erupt like volcanoes between the phrases of my readers' souls. Metaphors such as your absence is similar to eating salt straight from the shaker while thirst is devouring my tongue. Metaphors such as the lack of your presence is like being straddled behind the glass of my own senses.
Malak El HalabiStichwörter: death father missing-you
A man who lives long enough will be a boy twice.
Mokokoma MokhonoanaStichwörter: age death dependence diapers nappies old-age-homes
To hear how much of a great human being you were — even if you really weren’t — open your ears at your funeral.
Mokokoma MokhonoanaStichwörter: lies death conformity eulogy funeral tradition insincerity deceased
A funeral is no place for secrets.
Mitch AlbomStichwörter: loss death secrets funeral grieving
Being unheard is the ground floor of giving up, and giving up is the ground floor of doing yourself in. It’s not so much, what’s the point? It’s more like, what’s the difference?
Mitch AlbomStichwörter: life purpose difference loss death suicide giving-up give-up point bottom unheard ground-floor
For some folks death is release, and for others death is an abomination, a terrible thing. But in the end, I'm there for all of them.
Neil GaimanStichwörter: death comics gaiman sandman postmodernism graphic-novel
Wisdom is finding out that a cobra is deadly; without first having to lose one’s life.
Mokokoma MokhonoanaStichwörter: wisdom lesson experience knowledge death mistakes cobra
Writing keeps death at bay. Every book I write is a triumph over death. ... If we did not know we’d die, we’d wander around and sleep like cats.
Ray BradburyStichwörter: inspirational writing death creativity motivation
I had survived the work gangs in the ghetto. Baked bread under cover of night. Hidden in a pigeon coop. Had a midnight bar mitzvah in the basement of an abandoned building. I had watched my parents be taken away to their deaths, had avoided Amon Goeth and his dogs, had survived the salt mines of Wieliczka and the sick games of Trzebinia. I had done so much to live, and now, here, the Nazis were going to take all that away with their furnace!
I started to cry, the first tears I had shed since Moshe died. Why had I worked so hard to survive if it was always going to end like this? If I had known, I wouldn't have bothered. I would have let them kill me back in the ghetto. It would have been easier that way. All that I had done was for nothing.
Stichwörter: death tears holocaust nazis concentration-camps
It was all a big joke. I could see that now. There was no rhyme or reason to whether we lived or died. One day it might be the man next to you at roll call who is torn apart by dogs. The next day it might be you who is shot through the head. You could play the game perfectly and still lose, so why bother playing at all?
Alan GratzStichwörter: wwii death holocaust wwii-fiction wwii-poland
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