Quotes About Indifference

I didn't like mundane life.

No one gives a shit if you write a book or not.

That day was also the first time a case of COVID-19 was diagnosed in South Korea, which promptly began an orderly regime of testing that limited the immediate impact of the virus. In contrast, Trump that night addressed the growing threat with his customary salesman's patter. "We have it totally under control," he said. No, they didn't, and Trump's feckless indifference in those early days cost thousands of American lives.

Trump neither knew nor cared about the distinction between his personal lawyer and the attorney general of the United States.

Most primary alliances can survive even the most brutal honesty; silent complacency is the kiss of death. When there is no fight left, no urgency to tell the truth or hear it, not enough self-respect to act with agency nor enough respect for others to respond to theirs, that is the real problem. More relationships drift into indifference than capsize from conflict. Practicing honesty and not overfearing confrontation is the mark of healthy people and their subsequently successful partnerships.

Because I don't care anymore, Ms. Beezemeyer, I want to say. Not about Amade Malherbeau, my classes, college or much of anything. Because the gray world I've managed to live in for the past two years has started to turn black around the edges.

Cry your grief to God. Howl to the heavens. Tear your shirt. Your hair. Your flesh. Gouge your eyes. Carve out your heart. And what will you get from Him? Only Silence. Indifference.

Cry your grief to God. Howl to the heavens. Tear your shirt. Your hair. Your flesh. Gouge out your eyes. Carve out your heart. And what will you get from Him? Only silence. Indifference. But merely stand looking at the playbills, sighing because your name is not on them, and the devil himself appears at your elbow full of sympathy and suggestions. And that's why I did it....Because God loves us, but the devil takes an interest.

No, I didn't remember the deer. Is the deer okay?' 'Fuck the deer. Hush now.

At the end of an evening, her women friends would hug her, or a friend's husband might slip his arm around her waist to kiss her, just a little too suggestively, and the coldness in her would respond, I don't give a damn if I ever see any of you again.

I was not a nostalgic person. I didn't save Christmas cards, rarely took pictures, felt mostly indifferent to the snapshots people sent me. Until the accident, I had always thought my memory was bad, but in fact I'd thrown the past away, a ream of discarded events--so that I could move, unencumbered, into the future.

Andy? Really, who gives a shit?

Jameson had a habit of tossing out words that should matter like they didn't at all.

It doesn't matter unless you let it matter.

Devon put an arm around me and curled his lips into an expression I recognized as Smirk Number One: sarcastic with a touch of I-couldn't-care-less. "Why, Bryn," he said with a hint of Scarlett O-Hara in his voice, "I do believe he's given her your pen." Devon's words freed up my mouth, which—true to form—spoke without consulting my brain. "Well, get Freud on the phone. He'll have a field day with this one.

The Sierra Madre was like the sea, he thought. Both of them deathless, monotonously eternal, and so indifferent in their magnitude that either could accept the dust of all the world's dead and not have the decency to show it in posture.

No matter which way we go, it is no better than any other. It is all the same whether you achieve something or not, have faith or not, just as it is all the same whether you cry or remain silent.

He [Maxime] was twenty, and already there was nothing left to surprise or disgust him. He had certainly dreamt of the most extreme forms of debauchery. Vice with him was not an abyss, as with certain old men, but a natural, external growth.

On May 5, 1896, he wrote in his diary; "I have no longer anything to say; everything is alike in its horrible cruelty.

The sea with its perpetual oscillation, that obstinate swell sweeping up to the cliffs twice a day, exasperated him: it was senseless force, indifferent to his grief, wearing down the same rocks for centuries while never mourning the death of a single human being. it was too vast, too cold; and he would hurry home and shut himself indoors, to feel less insignificant, less crushed between the dual infinities of sea and sky.

Ludzie pozbawieni serca nic ju? czu? nie mogÄ…, jak?e wiÄ™c mogÄ™ mu wspóÅ'czu??

I take so little interest in my daily life, that I hardly remember to eat and drink.

and who can be ill natured and bad tempered when they encounter neither opposition nor indifference?

Sí. Qué tontería. ¡Como si me importara! —repuso Catherine irritada—¿Y qué me quieres decir con eso? —Quiero que veas que a mí sí me importa. —dijo Heathcliff.