Quotes About Desperation

Sometimes faith might just be a case of not havin nothin else left.

Creedless shells of men tottering down the causeways like migrants in a feverland.

See him. You could say that he's sustained by his fellow men, like you. Has peopled the shore with them calling to him. A race that gives suck to the maimed & the crazed, that wants their wrong blood in its history & will have it. But they want this man's life. He has heard them in the night seeking him with lanterns & cries of execration. How then is he borne up? Or rather, why will not these waters take him?

Your old man called me. He wanted you to call home. People in hell want ice water.

Meanin I guess that he seen somebody in a place low enough to where he ought to be ready to take a pretty big step.

There had to be a last man standing. And it wasnt the cuate in the Bronco begging for water.

He thought perhaps if he dreamt of him enough he'd go away forever and be dead among his kind

Glanton was first to reach the dying man and he knelt with that alien and barbarous head cradled between his thighs like some reeking outland nurse and dared off the savages with his revolver. They circled on the plain and shook their bows and lofted a few arrows at him and then turned and rode on. Blood bubbled from the man's chest and he turned his lost eyes upward, already glazed, the capillaries breaking up. In those dark pools there sat each a small and perfect sun.

Now come days of begging, days of theft. Days of riding where there rode no soul save he.

The kid looked at the man. His head was strangely narrow and his hair was plastered up with mud in a bizarre and primitive coiffure. On his forehead were burned the letters H T and lower and almost between the eyes the letter F and these markings were splayed and garish as if the iron had been left too long. When he turned to look at the kid the kid could see that he had no ears.

Listen Sut. We're painted into a corner anyways. I mean what if we was to just call up and say he died? I mean hell fire, you caint fool them guys. Them guys is doctors. They take one look at him and know for a fact he's been dead six months. How does it smell in there? It smells fuckin awful.

He raised his face to the paling day. Are you there? he whispered. Will I see you at the last? Have you a neck by which to throttle you? Have you a heart? Damn you eternally have you a soul? Oh God, he whispered. Oh God.

Glanton could see crouched in a corner a Mexican or halfbreed boy maybe twelve years old. He was naked save for a pair of old calzones and makeshift sandals of uncured hide. He glared back at Glanton with a sort of terrified insolence.

Then he waded out into the river like some wholly wretched baptismal candidate.

And I said no ma'am I just aim to quit. I ain't ahead by a damn sight. I never will be.

They was some of em wound up just livin in the woods like animals. And that was a cold winter, too. People would see em crossin the road at night in the carlights. Whole families. Carryin blankets. Pots and pans. People tried to find em. Take em some flour and meal. Coffee. Maybe a little sidemeat. I think about those children. I do yet.

They aint got no medication for pilgrims waitin to take the Sunset?

Chigurh shot him in the face. Everything that Wells had ever known or thought or loved drained slowly down the wall behind him

What do you think? At the last minute little Bobby Shafto is going to wake from the dead and come and rescue you? Silver buckles on his shoes or whatever the fuck? He's out of the loop, Louise. Since he duffeled his head in his racing machine. She looked away.

Overseen all day by a goldtoothed pervert who carried a plaited rawhide quirt and harried them down the gutters on their knees gathering up the filth.

Without some redistribution of wealth and power, downward mobility and debilitating poverty will continue to drive people into desperate channels. And without principled opposition to xenophobias from above and below, these desperate channels will produce a cold-hearted and mean-spirited America no longer worth fighting for or living in.

Desperate? So what? I'm desperate, too! Fenoglio snapped at her. My story is foundering in misfortune, and these hands here, he said holding them out to her, don't want to write anymore! I'm afraid of words Meggie! 'Once they were like honey, now they're poison, pure poison! But what is a writer who doesn't love words anymore? What have I come to? This story is devouring me, crushing me, and I'm it's creator!

Apenas sentía el cuerpo en el agua helada, y el humo hacía de la respiración una tortura, pero tenía que encontrarla. -Jacob- unos brazos mojados le rodearon el cuello; una fría mejilla se unió a la suya. Sus cabellos pelirrojos parecían casi negros, empapados y pegados a la cara, y Jacob la abrazó hasta sentir el latido de su corazón a través de las ropas mojadas. No se atrevía a soltarla, por miedo a que las olas se la llevaran de nuevo.

Was there any more wretched existence than the life of a writer who had run out of words?