I’ve learned that even when I have pains, I don’t have to be one.
I did not lose myself all at once. I rubbed out my face over the years washing away my pain, the same way carvings on stone are worn down by water.
I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.
However much it may pain her to know the truth, truth is the only thing that matters.
How much can we ever know about the love and pain in another’s heart? How much can we hope to understand those who have suffered deeper anguish, greater deprivation, and more crushing disappointments than we ourselves have known?
God is a concept by which we measure our pain.
For the first time since her return, she felt pain, a violent pain, but it made her alive, because it was worth feeling.
Each person feels the pain in his own way, each has his own scars.
Do you not see how necessary a World of Pains and troubles is to school an Intelligence and make it a Soul?
But who can remember pain, once it’s over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind.
Because we remember pain and the menace of death more vividly than pleasure, and because our feelings toward the beneficent aspects of the unknown have from the first been captured and formalized by conventional religious rituals, it has fallen to the lot of the darker and more maleficent side of cosmic mystery to figure chiefly in our popular supernatural folklore.
Art is only a way of expressing pain.
