Quotes About Desperation

Sometimes I think God loves the ones who most desperately ache and are most desperately lost - his or her wildest, most messed-up children - the way you'd ache and love a screwed-up rebel daughter in juvenile hall.

Nobody wants to sell their child, but what they wind up doing is selling their child to be able to support their family.

If I had the use of my body, I would throw it out the window.

We all live in a house on fire, no fire department to call; no way out, just the upstairs window to look out of while the fire burns the house down with us trapped, locked in it.

What crushed my soul was hanging out with bitter, desperate comics backstage. They're a different breed than the bitter yet eager psyches in the wings of an improv theatre. Struggling stand-ups have externalized self-loathing into an art form. They're a hunching, quaking, unshaven lot.

You had to knock the doors of the great directors and producers; of course I needed the work and was desperate for work. I remember one of the producers saying, we have R.D. Burman, we have Laxmikant-Pyarelal, we've got Kalyanji-Anandji with us, why should we take you?'

The first thing you have to understand is that I was not desperate to be a writer. I was never a closet writer filing away notes in a cupboard.

The problem with faerie gifts is that they always come with a price, which is why they are made by the desperate and the foolish.

Doesn't the fight for survival also justify swindle and theft? In self defence, anything goes.

As the economy goes south, petty theft begins. And then grand theft. And then muggings.

Omigod, I'm so bored I could shoot myself in the head with a knife.

Nine runs to the bad, doomed, insanely hopeful, they pleaded raucously for the impossible.

It is always pathetic to watch the efforts a man makes to cling to a straw, especially when one is oneself the straw.

Ça veut mourir d'amour, dit-elle. Alors, tu devrais te dépêcher. Parce que ça va se mettre à mourir de tous les côtés, et ça ne va pas être d'amour, crois-moi.

Necessity and desperation birth resourcefulness.

He was confronted at an early age with adult-strength realizations about powerlessness, desperation, and distrust, taking his dose right alongside the overwhelmed adults. This steady stream of shocks and realizations leaves so many boys raised in poor, urban areas stumbling toward manhood with a hardened exterior masking deep insecurities.

You knew you couldn't reason with him. Not in the state he'd created for himself.

Para mí, los libros son verdaderos talismanes. Me parece que, si tengo algo a mano para leer, puedo ser capaz de aguantar casi todo. Son un antidoto para el dolor, un calmante para la desesperación, un excitante contra el aburrimiento. Nunca me siento sola ni existen horas perdidas cuando puedo sumergirme en un texto.

And here was the thing I didn't understand then but do now—the loneliness. I was right, in that there was just the three of us. Or the two of us. Nobody else, not Clemence, not even my mother herself, cared as much as we did about my mother. Nobody else thought night and day of her. Nobody else knew what was happening to her. Nobody else was as desperate as the two of us, my father and I, to get our life back. To return to the Before.

The jittery focus, the devastated shelves, a couple of fights breaking out over paper towels, a swarm descending on an employee trying to restock toilet paper, madness in people's eyes—it was like the beginning of every show where the streets empty and some grotesque majestic entity emerges from mist or fire.

I tried to get away from him, to get to that door, but instead I backed up against the wall and was stuck there in that white, white room.

Romeo keeps talking after Father Travis walks through the door. Keeps on talking to the empty coffeepot and waiting chairs, to the walls, to the sun shafts through basement window, to the food smells, to the hands, the knees, the air. Keeps on talking because once he finishes he does not know what will happen next, what awaits him anywhere in his won life, and because he cannot leave with these embarrassing sheets of snot and tears still running down his face.

A God who counts minutes and pennies, a desperate sensual God, who grunts like a pig. A pig with golden wings, who falls and falls, always belly side up, ready for caresses, that's him, our master. Come, kiss me.

Tout ça c'est des regrets qui ne font pas bouillir la marmite.