And it hurts her, but it's an okay hurt, but it hurts still, but it's good, but it hurts.

I was not wounded in any part of my body, but I had never experienced such intense pain, such a ripping of the nerves, such an ache of the heart.

…the pain of neuralgia…she knew what they thought. That she was cold. Couldn't feel. But in fact she felt too much. Too deeply.

Now and then I see something in her eyes, and I wonder if I’ve ever grasped how much pain she’s really in.

Sharp knives seemed to cut her delicate feet, yet she hardly felt them — so deep was the pain in her heart.

Life is pain

is a sharp hurt I feel every single day. It’s really hard. Some days are better than others, but it’s going to be hard every day for the rest of my life.

She wanted to put her head down on her knees and close her eyes. She felt the way she had years ago when she'd tumbled down the stairs and had the wind knocked out of her: a pain in the chest and stomach so strong it was hard to breathe.

It seemed to her that almost any pain was sympathetic to her loss and she inserted herself immediately into the concept of fantastic suffering.

No one who does not live with constant pain can imagine the toll it takes. The way it grinds you down. The sheer damnable tedium of it.

I could never hurt him enough to make his betrayal stop hurting. And it hurts, in every part of my body.

Never had she danced so beautifully; the sharp knives cut her feet, but she did not feel it, for the pain in her heart was far greater.

Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her in so much and so many horrors; and hereafter she may suffer — both in waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams.

It was like something you have dreaded and feared and dodged for years until it seemed like all your life, then despite everything it happened to you and all it was was just pain, all it did was hurt and so it was all over, all finished, all right.