Quotes About Comfort

The horrors of war, pale beside the loss of a mother

The more comfort the less courage there is.

My home...It is my retreat and resting place from wars, I try to keep this corner as a haven against the tempest outside, as I do another corner in my soul.

You're not alone, are you? Because I'm here

The ongoing strife in Iraq, and the billions of dollars that the President is seeking to continue that war, give me little comfort that this Administration has learned from its mistakes in Iraq.

They walked as old friends walk, without often speaking, sharing the kind of silence that is not so much silence as a kind of still communication.

I wanted to say something to make her feel better, but I didn't know what words could have that much magic.

How do you know when you find the right saddle? You just "feel" it, because your horse is relaxed and willing under you, and your hours in the saddle are less hard work and far more pleasurable. Your saddle feels like a comfortable pair of shoes

Intenta pasar seis meses junto a la cama de un moribundo y luego dime que las historias de amor con final feliz no son una bendición de Dios.

Sweetheart, I don't think there's going to be any pain, if that's what you're worried about. Now I'm no gynecologist, but you're thirty years old, and whatever barrier might have been there when you were a youngster has got to have evaporated from old age by now.

His arms cradled her as if she really belonged inside them.

So I was for stories. I was for stries just as gannets were for balls of silver-flashing fish - I'd crash towards them, gaping. I'd try for as many as I could. And I'd keep them safe like feathers in a vase... They have been my comfort. My family. My strange nourishment.

But you've brought him happiness, Eponine; he is happy because of you — and that was my only comfort as I cried and cried, feeling so lonely, in my house of leaves.

Come on," said Papa. "Let's go home.

That night (as on all nights), when the lights get turned out, Don and I lie on our backs side by side with his left hand cradling my right. "I worry that this sickness is taking over your life, Bear," I murmur in the dark now permeated by a bathroom nightlight he has just affixed. "I have no other life," he responds while gently stroking my fingers. "I don't know what to hope for," I whisper. "Let's hope for a good summer," he says.

I have always taken great comfort in newspapers. No matter how horrid an event, there is something in seeing it described in black and white that makes it somehow bearable.

May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest,

Sit," Mrs. Adair said gently. "Both of you, rest. The Lord knows what happened and why. And soon, I trust, so shall

Herman Melville is not comforting. Emily Dickinson isn't either. Maybe their work is too hungry for comfort, or just too vivid for comfort. But Henry James is – profoundly so. Because he is tender. The tenderness is there in the structure of the sentence. He knows the way the poor and the dead are forgotten by the living, and he cannot allow that to happen. So he keeps on writing for them, for the dead, as if they were children to be sheltered and loved, never abandoned.

It's funny how you can be all alone and in danger and then a minute later feel totally safe, like you've never been lonely before.

A feast of green M&M's is my recipe for healing.

His smile is kind, and my heart, which I didn't even know had taken off, starts to calm down.

make sure you're all right.

When Americans find out I grew up in the tenements, the question they invariably ask me is "how did you end up there?" Americans, it seems, find comfort in reasons and explanations. They honestly believe that if they can find the reason for someone else's misfortune, they can avoid that misfortune themselves. If they could find out how I ended up in the tenements, they could assure themselves that it could never have happened to them.