Festival Sad Quotes

Christmas it seems to me is a necessary festival; we require a season when we can regret all the flaws in our human relationships: it is the feast of failure, sad but consoling.

... But sad people aren't objects to fix. Give them space and show them you'll still love them whenever they are ready to loved.

All things that we ordained festival, Turn from their office to black funeral; Our instruments to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast, Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change, Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse, And all things change them to the contrary.

Have you ever been at a festival when you were sad or ill? Well, then you’ve felt how much your sadness was irritated and exasperated, as by an insult, by the joyful faces and the beauty of things. It’s an intolerable feeling. Think of what it must mean to a victim who is going to die under torture. Think how much the torture is multiplied in his flesh and his soul by all the splendour which surrounds him; and how much more atrocious is his agony, how much more hopelessly atrocious, darling!

It was a sad moment in Magnus Bane’s life when he was banned from Peru by the High Council of Peruvian warlocks. It was not just because the posters with a picture of him that were passed around Downworld in Peru were so wildly unflattering. It was because Peru was one of his favorite places. He had had many adventures there, and had many wonderful memories, starting with the time in 1791 when he had invited Ragnor Fell to join him for a festive sightseeing escape in Lima. 1791

The feast of the Liberalia was on March 17, a now sadly forgotten festival at which Roman citizens celebrated a boy’s first ejaculation.

The Green Man has also become synonymous with Cernunnos, the Celtic horned God, often portrayed in Celtic art as part man, part stag, who roams the greenwood wild and free. He is a character of strength and power, but often sadly mistaken for the devil by the Christian fraternity due to his horned appearance.

Dango, dango, dango, dango, a big dango family Dango, dango, dango, dango, a big dango family The naughty fried dango, the kind red bean dango The Mid-Autumn Festival dango tends to dream a little The prim sesame dango, the four dango on a skewer Everyone, everyone comes together and it’s a family of 100s The baby dango is always within happiness The aged dango has its eyes narrowed The chummy dango hold their hands together and make a big, round ring They build a town on the dango planet and everyone laughs together The rabbit is trying to wave in the sky; the huge moon Is rounding up everything, happy things and sad things, too The chummy dango hold their hands together and make a big, round ring They build a town on the dango planet and everyone laughs together The rabbit is trying to wave in the sky; the huge moon Is rounding up everything, happy things and sad things, too Dango, dango, dango, dango, a big dango family Dango, dango, dango, dango, a big dango family Dango, dango, dango, dango, a big dango family Dango, dango, dango, dango, a big dango family

Our first youth is of no value; for we are never conscious of it, until after it is gone. But sometimes--always, I suspect, unless one is exceedingly unfortunate--there comes a sense of second youth, gushing out of the heart's joy at being in love; or possibly, it may come to crown some other grand festival in life, if any other such there be. This bemoaning of one's self. . . over the first, careless, shallow gayety of youth departed, and this profound happiness at youth regained,--so much deeper and richer than that we lost,--are essential to the soul's development. In some cases, the two states come almost simultaneously, and mingle the sadness and the rapture in one mysterious emotion.

I know, there is loneliness.I know, there is betrayal. I know, there are promises unhonored, but that doesn't dampen my festive spirit...

The noontide of my life is starting, Which I must needs accept, I know; But oh, my light youth, if we're parting, I want you as a friend to go! My thanks to you for the enjoyments, The sadness and the pleasant torments, The hubbub, storms, festivity, For all that you have given me; My thanks to you. I have delighted In you when times were turbulent, When times were calm... to full extent; Enough now! With a soul clear-sighted I set out on another quest And from my old life take a rest. Let me glance back. Farewell, you arbours Where, in the backwoods, I recall Days filled with indolence and ardours And dreaming of a pensive soul. And you, my youthful inspiration, Keep stirring my imagination, My heart's inertia vivify, More often to my corner fly. Let not a poet's soul be frozen, Made rough and hard, reduced to bone And finally be turned to stone In that benumbing world he goes in, In that intoxicating slough Where, friends, we bathe together now.

Albert Ken-rich Fisher’s 1900 “Summary of the Contents of 255 Stomachs of the Screech Owl” made me feel tired and sad, though also vaguely festive, owing to the author’s “Twelve Days of Christmas”–style presentation: “91 stomachs contained mice … 100 stomachs contained insects … 9 stomachs contained crawfish … 2 stomachs contained scorpions …” Droppings provided a kinder, less taxing alternative.

To Their Most Royal Majesties, the King and Queen of Ravka: It is with a sad heart that I must proffer my regrets and inform you that I will be unable to attend the festivities celebrating the birth of Prince Nikolai Lantsov, Grand Duke of Udova. Unfortunate circumstances have arisen, namely that my best friend can’t seem to stand the sight of me, and your son didn’t kiss me, and I wish he had. Or I wish he hadn’t. Or I’m still not sure what I wish, but there’s a very good chance that if I’m forced to sit through his stupid birthday dinner, I’ll end up sobbing into my cake. With best wishes on this most happy of occasions, Alina Starkov, Idiot

Ordinarily, when he thought back upon those days, let alone upon his student years and the Bamboo Grove, it had always been as if he were gazing from a cool, dull room out into broad, brightly sunlit landscapes, into the irrevocable past, the paradise of memory. Such recollections had always been, even when they were free of sadness, a vision of things remote and different, separated from the prosaic present by a mysterious festiveness. But now, on this bright and cheerful September afternoon, with the strong greens and browns all around him and the ethereal, gently misted tones of blues verging into violet in the distance, as he trudged along at an easy pace, with frequent pauses to look about him, that walking tour of so long ago did not seem a distant paradise cut off from a resigned present. rather his present journey was the same as that of the past, the present Joseph Knecht was close as a brother to the Knecht of those days. Everything was new again, mysterious, promising; all that had been could recur, and many new things as well. It was long, long since he had looked out upon the day and the world and seen them as so unburdened, so beautiful and innocent. The happiness of freedom, of commanding his own destiny, flooded through him like a strong drink. How long it was since he had last had this feeling, last entertained this lovely and rapturous illusion.

The village square teemed with life, swirling with vibrant colors and boisterous chatter. The entire village had gathered, celebrating the return of their ancestral spirit. Laughter and music filled the air, carrying with it an energy that made Kitsune smile. Paper lanterns of all colors floated lazily above, their delicate glow reflecting on the smiling faces below. Cherry blossoms caught in the playful breeze, their sweet, earthy scent settling over the scene. At the center, villagers danced with unbridled joy, the rhythm of the taiko drums and the melody of flutes guiding their steps. To the side, a large table groaned under the weight of a feast. Sticky rice balls, steamed dumplings, seaweed soup, sushi, and more filled the air with a mouthwatering aroma. As she approached the table, she was greeted warmly by the villagers, who offered her food, their smiles genuine and welcoming. She filled a plate and sat at a table with Goro and Sota, overlooking the celebration. The event brought back a flood of memories of a similar celebration from her childhood—a time when everything was much simpler and she could easily answer the question who are you? The memory filled her heart with a sweet sadness, a reminder of what she lost and what had carved the road to where she was now. Her gaze fell on the dancing villagers, but she wasn’t watching them. Not really. Her attention was fully embedded in her heart ache, longing for the past, for the life that was so cruelly ripped away from her. “I think... I think I might know how to answer your question,” she finally said, her voice soft and steady, barely audible over the cacophony of festivity around them. “Oh?” Goro responded, his face alight with intrigue. “I would have to tell you my story.” Kitsune’s eyes reflected the somber clouds of her past. Goro swallowed his bite of food before nodding. “Let us retire to the dojo, and you can tell me.” They retreated from the bustling square, leaving behind the chaos of the celebration. The sounds of laughter and chatter and drums carried away by distance. The dojo, with its bamboo and sturdy jungle planks, was bathed in the soft luminescence of the moonlight, the surface of its wooden architecture glistening faintly under the glow. They stepped into the silent tranquility of the building, and Kitsune made her way to the center, the smooth, cool touch of the polished wooden floor beneath her providing a sense of peace. Assuming the lotus position, she calmed herself, ready to speak of memories she hadn’t confronted in a long time. Not in any meaningful way at least. Across from her, Goro settled, his gaze intense yet patient, encouraging her with a gentle smile like he somehow already understood her story was hard to verbalize.

we grew accustomed to believe that he was alive in the house of power because someone had seen him light the Chinese lanterns at some festival, someone had told about seeing his sad eyes, his pale lips, his pensive hand waving through the liturgical decorations of the presidential coach

... then came a period when nothing soothed me ... there was no balm in the festive herbal splendor of my kitchen, no balm in the exhaustive evening showers before and after the Brooklyn Bridge excursion ... the waking hours weighted themselves between my legs, and there was no relief in sight .. I took to the reading of memoirs ... it was one of my finer moments when I discovered that no human life escapes the tribulation of solitude ...

But Ángeles Alfaro left as she had come, with her tender sex and her sinner’s cello, on an ocean liner that flew the flag of oblivion, and all that remained of her on the moonlit roofs was a fluttered farewell with a white handkerchief like a solitary sad dove on the horizon, as if she were a verse from the Poetic Festival.

Hello,” he said. “…hello,” she replied, perplexed. “I thought I should start off with hello, seeing as I neglected to say it earlier.” Her brow came down in confusion. Where was he going with this? “Not because you took me by surprise,” he continued. “Although you did. But because I didn’t think I needed to have a beginning with you. Since we began so long ago, you see.” One eyebrow rose. “But I was wrong, and for that, I apologize.” His eyes became suddenly sad, and it was all Susannah could do to not reach out and touch his cheek. But she restrained herself. “I was away too long,” he whispered. “Three Christmases, six birthdays. However many weeks…” “One hundred fifty-six.” She found the corner of her mouth ticking up. “You were missed,” she concurred. “At home.” “Did you miss me?” he asked suddenly, and a thrill of heat ran through her. Between them. “Yes.” Her answer was frank. Calm. “Did you miss me?” “I missed far too much of you,” he answered. “I did not even realize how much until I came here and found the little girl that I knew had gone.” “She’s not gone,” Susannah conceded. “Not entirely. I still ride Clarabelle at home.” “Do you now?” The corner of his mouth ticked up. “In breeches,” she whispered. Something lit in his eyes. Some kind of… anticipation. And now she knew why her Aunt Julia had ordered her to not wear breeches while riding with other people. Not because they would offend. But because they could entice. She blushed at the thought, broke his gaze, looked at her shoes, at the little bench, and the candles dripping festive red wax in the wall sconce, looked at the eave they stood under, and the vines of ivy and garland that hung there. “I want the chance to start again with you, Susannah,” Sebastian whispered. “This new Susannah. I am a bit off-kilter here, and if you would simply give me the opportunity to catch up, I think you and I… I think we could…” He let that sentence drift off. Left her breathless at what he might have said. “Oh, I’m making a complete bungle of it, aren’t I?” He dropped her hand – had he been holding it this whole time? Ever since he pulled her in here? – and crossed his arms over his chest. “No, you’re not.” She reached out and put her hand on his arm, unwilling to break the connection. “And yes, I suppose a fresh start is fair.” After all, she reasoned, she’d had years to nurse her feelings. He’d had approximately ten minutes. A grin spread across his face, sending her heart into a hummingbird’s pace. She found herself smiling too. No, it was not him falling to his knees professing his love. But it was a start. “Then perhaps I should ask the beautiful Miss Westforth to dance.” The fast-paced reel was in its final notes now. A new dance would start up in minutes. “I would love to.” After

They had this house of chimneys whose bricks contained the blood of pigs and calves so that a greasy sadness drifted in the festive rooms. They had this house of tears of lace constructed of a million tiny knots of useless knowledge. This house of windows hung with the desperations of dark virgins. They had this house of stacked sandstone colored the richest clay-red and lavender hue. Once this stone had formed the live heart of sacred islands. Now it was a fashionable backdrop to their ambitions.

To certain disciples who complained that men were leaving him and going to Jesus, John had said if effect: "Jesus is the Bridegroom, I am but the Bridegroom's friend; therefore it is right that men should leave me and join Jesus." Jesus now takes up the Baptist's words, and turns them to account for the purpose of defending the way of life pursued by His disciples. His reply, freely paraphrased, is to this effect: "I am the Bridegroom, as your master said; it is right that the children of the bride-chamber come to me; and it is also right that, when they have come, they should adapt their mode of life to their altered circumstances. Therefore they do well not to fast, for fasting is the expression of sadness, and how should they be sad in my company? As well might men be sad at a marriage festival. The days will come when the children of the bride-chamber shall be sad, for the Bridegroom will not always be with them; and at the dark hour of His departure it will be natural and seasonable for them to fast, for then they shall be in a fasting mood--weeping, lamenting, sorrowful, and disconsolate.

Now all things that were ordained for the festival were turned from their properties to do the office of a black funeral. The wedding cheer served for a sad burial feast, the bridal hymns were changed for sullen dirges, the sprightly instruments to melancholy.bells, and the flowers that should have been strewed in the bride’s path now served but to strew her corse. Now, instead of a priest to marry her, a priest was needed to bury her, and she was borne to church indeed, not to augment the cheerful hopes of the living, but to swell the dreary numbers of the dead.

It really does happen only once every hundred years or so, and then only if a number of chance factors happen to line up right. The time and the place are not definitively set. People who know about it call it "The Weaver Festival Phenomenon". It can only take place near a large river. Some people can't see it at all. The residual thoughts of a person who has died meet the sadness of someone left behind, and the vision is produced. This was my first experience of it, too...I think you were very lucky today.

A shout of ecstasy shakes the land of sadness, And the soul of light wants to erase the history of night. Every moment, a teacher, a guide, a sage in the voyage of life. If the soul has no light, even in sunlight, it loses the spirit of life. but with a soul of light, even at night, you see a thousand stars, exploding in the festival of light. There it begins, the play of galaxies in the midnight, For the soul has woken to the song of ecstasy, As the veins in deep, carry the rivers of light. Be the sun and the stars, so you will reach the shores of light in the wintry winds, in the dense nights, When sadness cloaks all around.

Money, Mississippi, looks exactly like it sounds. Named in that persistent Southern tradition of irony and with the attendant tradition of nescience, the name becomes slightly sad, a marker of self-conscious ignorance that might as well be embraced because, let’s face it, it isn’t going away. Just outside Money, there was what might have loosely been considered a suburb, perhaps even called a neighborhood, a not-so-small collection of vinyl-sided, split-level ranch and shotgun houses called, unofficially, Small Change. In one of the dying grass backyards, around the fraying edges of an empty aboveground pool, one adorned with faded mermaids, a small family gathering was happening. The gathering was neither festive nor special, but usual. It was the home of Wheat Bryant and his wife, Charlene. Wheat was between jobs, was constantly, ever, always between jobs. Charlene was always quick to point out that the word between usually suggested something at either end, two somethings, or destinations, and that Wheat had held only one job in his whole life, so he wasn’t between anything. Charlene worked as a receptionist at the Money Tractor Exchange J. Edgar Price Proprietor (the official business name, no commas), for both sales and service, though the business had not exchanged many tractors of late, or even repaired many. Times were hard in and around the town of Money. Charlene always wore a yellow halter top the same color as her dyed and poofed hair, and she did this because it made Wheat angry. Wheat chain-drank cans of Falstaff beer and chain-smoked Virginia Slims cigarettes, claiming to be one of those feminists because he did, telling his children that the drinks were necessary to keep his big belly properly inflated, and the smokes were important to his bowel regularity.

Despite the waves of sadness, one must go out there and have a love affair with life. For, to the mind that is playful, every moment becomes a moment of festival, a journey to taste the fruit of life. Were it otherwise, the dew would never fall on the grass to make us fresh, the sun would never explode to fill us with light, the dusk would never paint the sky to awaken the lover in us and the moon would never blush in the deep night to call the poet in us.

We have but one way, as it seems to me, of showing our gratitude to those who lie here: it is to hold their parents in the same high regard as they did, to be as affectionate to their children as though we were ourselves their fathers, and to give such support to their wives as they did while they lived. For whom could we be expected to honor in preference to those who lie here? Whom amongst the living should we more justly hold in high regard than their relations, who were on an equality with us all in reaping the fruits of their valor, but now that they are dead bear alone the kinsmen’s part in their misfortune? But in truth I do not know what need there is to lament so sadly: for we were quite aware that we were mortals. So why chafe now at the fate which we so long expected, or be so extremely distressed by the calamities of nature, when we know well that death is common to the basest and the noblest alike? Death neither disdains the wicked nor admires the virtuous, but is even-handed with all. Were it possible for those who escaped the perils of war to be immortal for all time, there would be cause for the living to mourn the dead for evermore. But we see not only that our nature yields to sickness and old age, but that the spirit to whom has been allotted the charge of our fate is inexorable. Therefore it is fitting to consider those most happy who have closed their lives in risking them for the greatest and noblest ends; not committing their career to chance, nor awaiting the death that comes of itself, but selecting the fairest one of all. For I say their memory can never grow old, while their honor is every man’s envy. Of their nature it comes that they are mourned as mortal, of their valor that they are lauded as immortal. Thus you see them given a public funeral, and contests of strength and knowledge and wealth* held at their tomb; because we think that those who have fallen in war are worthy of receiving the same honors as the immortals. * Since about 450 B.C. the State funerals had become elaborate festivals: they were celebrated each year in October, and included athletic and musical competitions. (Funeral Oration section 75-80)

Three car doors slammed in quick staccato as we got out. For a long moment we looked around at the lot, where we were just one in a massive sea of cars. Patrons who parked in the lot of the Willow Creek Faire could see the entrance when they got out of their cars: a two-dimensional castle façade that some volunteers had put together about five years ago. But not here. Our entire Faire could probably fit in this parking lot, and all we could see around us was row after row of cars. Like parking at Disney World, but without the trams or mouse ears. “Holy shit.” April wasn’t part of our Faire, but even she sounded impressed. “Where’s the entrance?” “Up that way.” I couldn’t see the gates I was pointing toward, but the stream of people told me I was indicating the right way. “A little bit of a hike, then.” April looked behind us, where the grassy lot continued to fill slowly with cars. “Holy shit,” she said again. “This isn’t a Faire. This is a town.” “Yeah.” Mitch had been here before—so had I; if you grew up around here you went to the Maryland Renaissance Festival at least once during your childhood—but even his eyes were a little wide at the vastness of it all. “This place is . . . It’s pretty big.” He paused. “That’s what she said.” I was too nervous to snicker, but April elbowed him in the ribs, and that was good enough. “Okay. We’re going in.” He reached over his head for the back of his T-shirt, pulling it off and tossing it into the back of the truck. April sighed. “All right, Kilty. Naked enough?” “Look on the bright side.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her as he stuck his keys into the sporran he wore attached to the kilt. “I’m not working this Faire. Which means I get to wear this kilt the way it’s meant to be worn.” I coughed. I didn’t want to think about what Mitch was or was not wearing under there. Which was sad, because thinking about Mitch in a kilt used to be one of my favorite hobbies. The man was born to wear that green plaid

Family, Today I pick up a brush, and my heart flies away home. To my family I write—regards to dear parents, aunt, and uncle. When I think of past days, my tears cannot stop falling down. I still feel sad to have left home. My stomach is big with baby and I am so hot in this weather. My in-laws are spiteful. I do all the household work. In this heat it is impossible to please. Sister, cousin, take care of Mama and Baba. We women can only hope that our parents will live many years. That way we will have a place to return for festivals. In our natal home, we will always have people who treasure us. Please be good to our parents. Your daughter, sister, and cousin

Despite the despair and sadness, one must go out there and have a love affair with life. To the playful mind, every moment is a moment of festival, a journey to taste the fruit of life. Were it otherwise, the dew of heaven would never make us fresh, the sun would never burst to fill us with light, dusk would never paint the sky to awaken the lover in us, and the moon would never blush at night to call the poet in us.

Adoption day finally arrives. The day that, at times, seemed an eternity away. The home studies are over, the 'what ifs' are behind you, smooth sailing from here on out! The birth mother tearfully signs the adoption papers as the nurse dresses the baby in the outfit you bought. The relatives gather at your house in anticipation of the homecoming. A meal is prepared, the mood is festive, voices are loud and cheerful, cameras flash and videos roll as you carry the baby into her new home for everyone to see. "Isn't she beautiful!" they all say one after another. Grandparents hold her first, then the aunts and uncles and cousins. The baby lies quietly in each person's arms, seemingly oblivious to all that is happening around her. However, no one knows that beneath that crisp white dress is a tiny, grieving heart. A heart that wonders where mommy is, her smell, the sound of her voice, her heartbeat, her body—where did she go? Such is the primal loss that your adopted baby experiences on the day she comes to live with you. Before you ever held her in your arms, she lost her birth mother and all she represents. It is a crushing blow that will affect her life forever. It can be likened to a toddler having both parents wiped out in an automobile accident, except, in this case, there is no closure. No funeral. No acknowledged grief. How different is the baby's emotional reality from what is happening around her? She is grieving; others are rejoicing. She is wounded; others are unaware. She needs comfort and nurturing; others are celebrating. These are difficult words to hear, especially for adoptive parents who want nothing but the best for their children. Learning that your child experienced such a blow before adoption ever occurred can produce feelings of helplessness and keep you from running away from your child's reality rather than helping her deal with it. The subject of adoptee loss is often uncomfortable for parents and mental health professionals alike, because the depth of pain an adopted person feels can be overwhelming. Ilene Simpson, author of Orphans, describes this fear of entering into another's pain well: "Orphans provide no entertainment. They don't cry, scream, shout, or behave bizarrely. Instead, they observe visitors in searching silence. It was an unwillingness to look into those eyes and to read their message that kept people away. It was fear of being pulled by invisible strings into a web of sadness." Entering your adopted child's emotional world can feel intimidating if you're not sure how to deal with what you'll find there.

The festive atmosphere of market day drives away gloom and sadness – Ladislav Grosman, The Shop on Main Street

For example, birthdays shouldn’t be framed – at the group level – purely as occasions for joy. They should be moments when what is incomplete can be confronted and sympathised with, in company. Mother’s Day or Father’s Day shouldn’t be about sheer gratitude and delight; these days must also allow for ambivalence and anger (sometimes even fury), for only thereafter can expressions of love feel genuine. Likewise, family holidays should never be presented as moments of total festivity; they are times when we must be able to squabble, sulk and face up to what is radically imperfect about where we have come from. Rather than being squeamish about difficulties, an intelligent culture holds our hand through, and helps us to name, the sad regions of life.

UNWRITTEN BLOOPER: The Strategic Cleavage Incident Mirael: crossing arms "REAL friends recognize when their bestie is pining for twenty years and actually DO something about it!" Selene: "You never SAID anything!" Mirael: "I shouldn't have HAD to! I was obvious!" Nysera: "How obvious?" Mirael: "Summer festival, three years ago! Low-cut dress, strong ale, I literally leaned over you for TWENTY MINUTES!" Selene: "I thought you were just... really interested in the conversation!" Mirael: "I was talking about BREAD, Selene! BREAD!" Caldrein: "That... does seem like unusual dedication to baking discussions..." Mirael: "And last winter! I 'accidentally' spilled wine on my shirt and had to change in front of you!" Selene: "You said you were cold!" Mirael: "I WAS HALF NAKED!" Vessa: "Oh honey, that's just sad." Selene: "I THOUGHT SHE WAS BEING FRIENDLY!" Mirael: "FRIENDLY DOESN'T INVOLVE STRATEGIC CLEAVAGE!" Nysera: shocked "There was strategic cleavage?!" Selene: "Apparently there was a LOT of strategic cleavage and I missed ALL of it!" Mirael: "Forty-seven times! Forty-seven nights of me practically throwing myself at you!" Selene: "You KEPT TRACK?!" Caldrein: covering his ears "I don't need to hear this..." Vessa: "Darling, at this point I'm questioning YOUR intelligence, not hers." Kira: from across set "What's strategic cleavage?" EVERYONE: "EAT YOUR SNICKERS!" Director: walking away "I don't get paid enough for this..." Coming 2026: UNWRITTEN: The Awakening - where apparently everyone is oblivious to everything