We couldn't imagine the emptiness of a creature who put a razor to her wrists and opened her veins, the emptiness and the calm.
Jeffrey EugenidesRead
It didn't matter in the end how old they had been, or that they were girls, but only that we had loved them, and that they hadn't heard us calling, still do not hear us, up here in the tree house with our thinning hair and soft bellies, calling them out of those rooms where they went to be alone for all time, alone in suicide, which is deeper than death, and where we will never find the pieces to put them back together.
Interpretation
What this quote means
The quote reflects on the pain of losing loved ones to suicide, emphasizing love's lasting impact despite their absence.
This poignant quote underscores the deep emotional turmoil experienced when loved ones choose solitude over connection, ultimately leading to tragedy. It illustrates that age, gender, or circumstance become irrelevant when faced with the irrevocable loss of those we care about, highlighting the profound sorrow of calling out for someone who is eternally unreachable. The speaker grapples with the inability to heal or restore what has been lost, signifying that suicide creates a chasm that love alone cannot bridge.
Themes
LossLoveSuicideGriefRelationships
In practice
Example use cases
In a discussion about mental health, one might use this quote to highlight the impact of suicide.
More from Jeffrey Eugenides
All quotes →It was the combination of many factors... With most people, suicide is like Russian roulette. Only one chamber has a bullet. With the Lisbon girls, the gun was loaded. A bullet for family abuse. A bullet for genetic predisposition. A bullet for historical malaise. A bullet for inevitable momentum. The other two bullets are impossible to name, but that doesn't mean the chambers were empty.
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Depression is like a bruise that never goes away. A bruise in your mind. You just got to be careful not to touch it where it hurts. It's always there, though.
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She lost much of her appetite. At night, an invisible hand kept shaking her awake every few hours. Grief was physiological, a disturbance of the blood. Sometimes a whole minute would pass in nameless dread - the bedside clock ticking, the blue moonlight coating the window like glue - before she`d remember the brutal fact that had caused it.
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It was one of those humid days when the atmosphere gets confused. Sitting on the porch, you could feel it: the air wishing it was water.
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Jerome was sliding and climbing on top of me and it felt like it had the night before, like a crushing weight. So do boys and men announce their intentions. They cover you like a sarcophagus lid. And call it love.
Jeffrey EugenidesRead
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