Quotes About Desperation

When I looked into the eyes of the people who knew Laci best, I saw something I didn't want to see: a group of people who desperately loved Laci, and who were beginning to suspect she wasn't coming home.

Being a father has fulfilled me in parts of my life that sustain me. It gives me a comfort and patience. All actors have this hole inside that they're trying to fill by performing. I'm anxious to keep creating, but I'm not so desperate any more because I have the love and support of my kids and wife.

Undernourished, intelligence becomes like the bloated belly of a starving child: swollen, filled with nothing the body can use.

I left home because I was hungry.

These, to be sure, were farfetched hopes, hopes born of despair, but hope is, after all, mostly for the desperate.

The look in her eyes is of a person who drank from the end of a gun barrel and found it delicious.

If all else fails, pillage the fridge.

That's one of the disadvantages of being poor, you don't dare kill anybody.

With an utterly foreign sense of desperation, he did something that he'd never, in all his thirty-three years, thought he would do. He tripped her.

Se Cuenta y se vuelve a contar con estas mismas palabras que he estado usando, que son las palabras que se usan en aquel Belén de Chamí que aún no aparece en el mapa, la fábula real de la madre que un día bisiesto fue de verdugo en verdugo pidiendo a los gritos que los mataran a ella y a sus dos hijos porque les habían dejado la familia sin padre.

Hope?! Hope is a bit desperate, isn't it? Hope is right below wishful thinking and right above performing a rain dance.

I've done the most awful rubbish in order to have somewhere to go in the morning.

It was a fabled railway that was the issue of desperation and fanaticism, made as much of myth and unreality as it was to be of wood and iron and the thousands upon thousands of lives that were to be laid down over the next year to build it. But what reality was ever made by realists?

To his complete astonishment, he later found himself offering up a stumbling prayer that the dog would be protected. It was a moment in which he felt a desperate need to believe in a God that shepherded his own creations. But, even praying, he felt a twinge of self-reproach, and knew he might start mocking his own prayer at any second. Somehow, though, he managed to ignore his iconoclastic self and went on praying anyway. Because he wanted the dog, because he needed the dog.

In a typical desperation for quick answers, easily understood, people had turned to primitive worship as the solution. With less than success. Not only had they died as quickly as the rest of the people, but they had died with terror in their hearts, with a mortal dread flowing in their very veins.

It was a moment in which he felt a desperate need to believe in a God that shepherded his own creations. But, even praying, he felt a twinge of self-reproach, and knew he might start mocking his own prayer at any second. Somehow, though, he managed to ignore his iconoclastic self and went on praying anyway. Because he wanted the dog, because he needed the dog.

The last man in the world was irretrievably stuck with his delusions.

desperate need to believe in a God that shepherded his own creations.

Tais pensamentos eram um testemunho hediondo do mundo que ele havia aceitado; um mundo no qual assassinar era mais fácil que ter esperanças.

He was out hunting for Cortman. It had become a relaxing hobby, hunting for Cortman; one of the few diversions left to him.

Thinking about it, he almost forgot that nightfall was approaching. With a start he looked up and saw Ben Cortman running at him from across the street. "Neville!" He jumped up from the porch and ran into the house, locking and bolting the door behind him with shaking hands.

And the answer was always lost in a tangle of becauses and wells and endless reasons that he clung to like a drowning man at straws.

IN THE FALL, with his wife in the basement studying Latin, Winston Ma, once Ma Sih Hsuin to everyone who knew him, sits under the crumbling mulberry and, with Verdi's Macbeth blasting out the bedroom window, puts a Smith & Wesson 686 with hardwood grips up to his temple and spreads the workings of his infinite being across the flagstones of the backyard.

You're the last bearable thing left to me, aside from death.