Quotes About Desperation

Food is good for the nerves and the spirit. Courage comes from the belly – all else is desperation.

What? You'd dare drink right after getting out of jail for intoxication?" That's when you need a drink the most.

I was their bar freak, they needed me to make themselves feel better. just like, at times, I needed that graveyard.

And there I was, 225 pounds, perpetually lost and confused, short legs, ape-like upper body, all chest, no neck, head too large, blurred eyes, hair uncombed, 6 feet of geek, waiting for her.

It was like a church in there as only the truly lost sit in bars on Tuesday mornings at 8:00 a.m.

Some nights I knew that if I slept I would die.

It is possible to be truly mad and to still exist upon scraps of life.

No wonder Van Gogh blasted his head off. Crows and sunlight. Idle zero. Zero eating your guts like an animal inside, letting you shit and fuck and blink your eyes, but nothing, a nothing.

as the shadows assume shapes I fight the slow retreat now my once-promise dwindling dwindling now lighting new cigarettes pouring more drinks it has been a beautiful fight still is.

if you think they didn't go crazy in tiny rooms just like you're doing now without women without food without hope then you're not ready.

Her eyes always had a frantic, lost look. He could never cure her eyes of that.

She was desperate and she was choosey at the same time and, in a way, beautiful, but she didn't have quite enough going for her to become what she imagined herself to be.

The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you, until there was nothing left.

he asked, what makes a man a writer? well, I said, it's simple, it's either you get it down on paper or you jump off a bridge. writers are desperate people and when they stop being desperate they stop being writers. are you desperate? I don't know...

When I get down to my last dime I'll just walk over to skid row. There are some real weirdos down there. They're everywhere.

and now as we ready to self-destruct there is very little left to kill which makes the tragedy less and more much much more.

and I sit there alone with you and Dostoevsky as the real and the artificial heart continues to falter, famished… I love you but don't know what to do.

Van Gogh writing his brother for paints Hemingway testing his shotgun Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine the impossibility of being human

Jim, did your father really blow his brains out because of your mother?" "Yeah. He was on the telephone. He told her he had a gun. He said, 'If you don't come back to me I'm going to kill myself. Will you come back to me?' And my mother said, 'No.' There was a shot and that was that." "What did your mother do?" "She hung up.

and I walked into a dark hall where the landlady stood execrating and final, sending me to hell, waving her fat, sweaty arms and screaming screaming for rent because the world had failed us both.

I was the only one without. you could hit bottom and then find another bottom. balls.

This kind of life is like everybody else's kind of life: it's killing us.

But it's only when a man gets to the point of a gun in his mouth that he can see the whole world inside of his head. Anything else is conjecture, conjecture and bullshit and pamphlets.

So where do you go? Back to the bottle And back to a tiny room somewhere. And wait. And wait, and wait. That's all.