Quotes About Discontent

America is at that awkward stage; it's too late to work within the system, but too early to shoot the bastards.

Money can't buy happiness, but it can make you awfully comfortable while you're being miserable.

Only then did she see that her life was miserable. She felt like crying when she saw her other side, she who, as I said, had always thought she was happy.

Your door is shut against my tightened face, And I am sharp as steel with discontent; But I possess the courage and the grace To bear my anger proudly and unbent.

Federico Ozanan añade: «Hay dos clases de orgullo: el que está contento de sí mismo, que es el más corriente y el menos peligroso; y el que está descontento de sí, porque esperaba mucho de él mismo y se ha visto defraudado en su esperanza.

Looked at from a spiritual standpoint, our discomfort in any given situation provides a signal that we are out of alignment with spiritual law and are being given an opportunity to heal something. It

He'd come to believe two conflicting ideas with equal conviction: that communism was the only way man could be truly content; and that man, given his selfish ways, could never practice communism with any success. The natural product of these two views was that man could never be content. History, with its procession of disgruntled political idealists, tended to prove him right.

Potter bears a grudge against potter, and craftsman against craftsman, and beggar is envious of beggar, and bard of bard.

We make great progress only at those times when we become melancholy—at those times when, discontented with the real world, we are forced to make for ourselves one more bearable. "The Theory of Ambition," an essay: JEAN-MARIE HÉRAULT DE SÉCHELLES

Do you know what I hate? I hate to be part of this play, which is entirely devised by him. I hate the time it will take that could be better spent, I hate it that minds could be better employed, I hate to see our lives going by, because depend upon it, we will all be feeling our age before this pageant is played out.

There'd always been something wrong with Charlie Hall. Crooked, from the day she was born. Never met a bad decision she wasn't willing to double down on. Had fingers made for picking pockets, a tongue for lying, and a shriveled cherry pit for a heart. If her shadow had been one of those magic ones, she was pretty sure even that thing would have run away.

I hate everyone. I just don't hate them enough.

I hate Taryn. I hate Madoc. I hate Locke. I hate Cardan. I hate everyone. I just don't hate them enough

We are, perhaps, uniquely among the earth's creatures, the worrying animal. We worry away our lives, fearing the future, discontent with the present, unable to take in the idea of dying, unable to sit still.

My God, she despised spaghetti bolognese. Night after night after night, plate after plate after plate. The laundry, the ironing, the mopping, the sweeping, the driving. She'd never resented it at the time but now she resented every moment, every single bloody lamb chop.

As Jane looked around her, she felt that dissatisfied feeling she often experienced when she was somewhere new and lovely. She couldn't quite articulate it except with the words "if only I were here". This little beachside cafe was so exquisite, she longed to really be there—except, of course, she was there, so it didn't make sense.

worse. She wanted to

There was something a little sad about having erotic dreams when you led such an unerotic life.

As Jane looked around her, she felt that dissatisfied feeling she often experienced when she was somewhere new and lovely. She couldn't quite articulate it except with the words If only I were here.

As Jane looked around her, she felt that dissatisfied feeling she often experienced when she was somewhere new and lovely. She couldn't quite articulate it except with the words If only I were here. This little beachside café was so exquisite, she longed to really be there—except, of course, she was there, so it didn't make sense. "Jane?

As Jane looked around her, she felt that dissatisfied feeling she often experienced when she was somewhere new and lovely. She couldn't quite articulate it except with the words If only I were here. This little beachside café was so exquisite, she longed to be really there -- except, of course, she was there, so it didn't make sense.

I find myself looking around at everything with an unsatisfied sniff. I'm too easily irritated and bored, and I'm disturbed by the arrogance that that implies.

I don't feel like playing anymore—all because of that stupid announcement. "Express your gratitude," they'd said. What they take: our rice, our language, our names. What they give: little rubber balls. I can't feel grateful about such a bad deal.

But what's so great about being a perfectionist?... You do all this work, and then the stuff you've made just pisses you off.