Quotes About Desperation

When things aren't working out for people, the end of the world seems like an easy way to wipe the slate clean.

So the thing that bothered me most was that the condemned man had to hope the machine would work the first time.

Will do Satan's work for food.

O, if there be any kind of life most sad, and deepest in the scale of pity, it is the dry, cold impotence of one, who has honestly set to the work of his own self-redemption.

I hate gold. It does not pay a dividend, it has no value, and you can't work out what it should or shouldn't be worth," he said. "It is the last refuge of the desperate.

It felt as if things were literally slipping through my fingers. Things were just streaming away from me. I lost my sense of humor. I'm still looking for that.

The people that live in my hometown do not walk along the street with smiles on their faces. It is a desperate place, but I got out.

These hands which stretch out, implore, beg, then rise to the head in a gesture of calamity.

I was never desperate to work in Bollywood though I aspired to do a movie across the border but only if I was offered a strong character and a main lead.

Literature can allow us to experience the best side of humankind, where instead of giving up, we struggle desperately in the ruins for love, connection and hope.

I like movies about longing and desperation, and dark and light things, stories about people struggling to raise children, and to have relationships and be intimate with each other.

Ik had gedacht dat ik hem zomaar mocht opslaan in duizend lege beelden en toch vrijuit kon gaan. Maar hier en nu, in dit compartiment, in deze voortdenderende trein, schokten de duizend beelden over elkaar heen en vielen trillend samen. Hun collectieve leegte was zo smartelijk dat ik die moest vullen. Tot elke prijs. Als ik dat niet deed, zo voelde ik, zou ik ten onder gaan. Want het was een leegte die niemand kon verdragen.

I thought about the kind of man who would stop off somewhere for a gun but not put on a pair of pants before committing grand larceny.

I close my eyes, and this image floats beside me. A sweaty toothed mad man with a stare that pounds my brain. His hands reach out and choke me, and all the time he's mumbling. "Truth, truth." Like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold. You push it, stretch it, but it'll never be enough. You kick at it, beat it, it'll never cover any of us. From the moment we enter crying, to the moment we leave dying, it'll just cover your face, as you wail and cry and scream.

If you're in the middle of the ocean with no flippers and no life preserver and you hear a helicopter, this is music.

The burning hillsides seemed to make the relentless daylight of Jamaica even sharper and more dazzling, and the visual effect of flames spreading in all directions at night was like nothing anybody had ever seen before, as if the combined anger and desperation of three hundred years had been unleashed on the hills. The white people, it seemed, had been magically dispelled.

Global political conditions make a direct American intervention difficult, but President Reagan's messianic and visceral attitude toward the Nicaraguan revolution could mean it will happen as an act of desperation.

Afterwards Isabelle often wondered if the moments themselves were greater or the memory of them. At least the memory did not pass, while the moments passed all too fast. Life whizzed by; she no longer had time to recollect it. Her notebooks to this day retain the story of her desperate attempt to hold together her self, her mind, her reason, her order, her morals.

Taking the car out of the rental parking lot, almost getting fender-bendered by the guy in the BMW speaking capitalist Cro-Magnon into his cell phone; wondering whether the time has come to get a gun; already starting to look forward to my lethal injection—

I did my best Shirley Booth this morning, floppy slippers, housecoat, curlers, can of Little Friskies; "Come back, Little Sheba, come back..." To no avail. Le chat, elle ne reviendra jamais, jamais...

The heroin I bought last night was so-so at best, but I dumped a lot into my wake up shot and managed to find a decent vein in my ankle. The dope flooded my bloodstream and I could feel normality returning: my aching muscles relaxed, the ice unthawed around my bones, my jangling nerves subsisted. I looked at my watch; it was 6:30 a. m. Another perfect fucking day had begun.

Our luck was still good. Sometimes a junkie and a whore can still make out in the Land of the Free.

Language is a piss poor attempt at telepathy is what it is. We try to put our thoughts into each other's heads through language...But half the intended meaning gets lost in the transmission, and the other half is filtered through existing assumptions. Everything is a half truth! That's the whole problem! You can't understand me through the smog of your presumptions and prejudices. Multiply that six billion times and you'll begin to understand the desperation of our global situation

We're all born in love, one love, but we pound it out of each other from birth, and every last lurch of our low-vibration dreary drama is just spastic desperation trying to find its way back to love.