We live in a dark and romantic and quite tragic world.
The most difficult aspect of moving on is accepting that the other person already did.
Out, out brief candle, life is but a walking shadow...a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Love, he told himself, was open to interpretation like any other abstract indulgence but followed the same principles everywhere, irrespective of everything else. One, either won or lost in love, there was no bridge in between, and he decided he had lost, lost to himself, if not to her.
My heart cracked. Daemon never begged.
When I was twelve, my sixth-grade English class went on a field trip to see Franco Zeffirelli’s film adaptation of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. From that moment forward I dreamed that someday I’d meet my own Juliet. I’d marry her and I would love her with the same passion and intensity as Romeo. The fact that their marriage lasted fewer than three days before they both were dead didn’t seem to affect my fantasy. Even if they had lived, I don’t think their relationship could have survived. Let’s face it, being that emotionally aflame, sexually charged, and transcendentally eloquent every single second can really start to grate on a person’s nerves. However, if I could find someone to love just a fraction of the way that Montague loved his Capulet, then marrying her would be worth it.
It’s just the love for her in my heart that is morphing into this madness and how can I run away from it? Sometimes I want to when I can’t bear it anymore, but where will I go?
For a moment she believed he had left, but as she shifted away from the wall she sensed him there beside the bed. He was very close. Wretched curiosity! But she would fight it and not look. “Katherine,” he whispered, his breath rolling in a warm wave across her cheek. A traitor tear spilled out, the humiliation was too much to contain. Gently, a finger dabbed the wetness from her skin. He said it again, softly, as though it pleased him just to say it, “Katherine.” “Viktor!” the accented voice bellowed from below. And then the shadow was gone. Darkness overwhelmed her then and carried her away to a land of crows and mocking strangers.
In that one moment, I wrapped a thousand others. A lifetime of joy, sorrow, laughter, frowns, smiles, tears... life!
If we were to understand how important it is to say something and say it well, maybe we wouldn’t write a single word, but that would be tragic.
Als ik niet begrijp hoe dingen gaan, wil ik dat de wereld ophoudt met draaien, zodat ik tijd heb om te begrijpen hoe het gaat. Maar de wereld houdt niet op met draaien. Terwijl ik één ding probeer te begrijpen, komt er een tweede bij, dat ik ook probeer te begrijpen, maar ik was nog niet klaar met het begrijpen van dat eerste. Alsof je met je linkerhand hete soep opschept en tegelijkertijd met je rechterhand een broodje met pindakaas probeert te smeren. En dan is er vaak een derde ding dat ik moet begrijpen, maar ik heb geen handen meer vrij.
The sad thing about history is that there are so many people out there from centuries, generations, even eras ago who are no longer in existence. They're names and stories aren't written down. They're now just mysterious figures of bone and dust deep in the ground that will never be known because no one bothered knowing them.
The sad thing about history is that there are so many people out there from centuries, generations, even eras ago who are no longer in existence. Their names and stories aren't written down. They're now just mysterious figures of bone and dust deep in the ground that will never be known because no one bothered knowing them.
You and I Again and again Always almost Never enough. - A world of almosts
As tragic as Benghazi was, its importance pales next to killing Osama bin Laden.
Charlie Brown is almost a tragic figure.
There is tragic evidence to show that the paintings at the French prehistoric art sites are deteriorating.
World history is tragic.