Quotes About Discontent

She resents the chipped paint of the table and the dingy closet they call a dressing room. (Dark City Lights)

Get it, get it, get it!" moaned Bean. She had never been so bored in her entire life. She was so bored she fell on the floor. Then she took a tiny peek up at the lady in the dressing room next door. Yow. "Get up, Bean!" said her mother. "This minute." Bean got up and sat on the triangle seat again. She waited. Nancy looked at herself. "I kind of like it," Nancy said. "But it costs forty dollars. That's all my

I didn't have a manifesto. I had some discontent. It seemed to me that midcentury mainstream American science fiction had often been triumphalist and militaristic, a sort of folk propaganda for American exceptionalism.

I never thought I want to do anything, really, except not go to work properly and turn up at the same place every day and eat sandwiches in the same canteen, if I can possibly help it, as I don't think I'd be very good at it.

We pay for the navy, and we have no commerce for the navy to protect; we pay for the army, and we loathe and execrate the work upon which it has been engaged.

Poverty leads to protests.

I'm tres old and tres bored, Tom, said Amory one day, stretching himself at ease in the comfortable window-seat. He always felt most natural in a recumbent position.

I can't exactly describe how I feel but it's not quite right. And it leaves me cold.

They're such beautiful shirts,' she sobbed, her voice muffled in the thick folds. 'It makes me sad because I've never seen such - such beautiful shirts before.

Yet how bored they both looked, and how wearily Ethel regarded Jim sometimes, as if she wondered why she had trained the vines of her affection on such a wind-shaken poplar.

There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him anymore.

And that taught me you can't have anything, you can't have anything at all. Because desire just cheats you. It's like a sunbeam skipping here and there about a room. It stops and gilds some inconsequential object, and we poor fools try to grasp it—but when we do the sunbeam moves on to something else, and you've got the inconsequential part, but the glitter that made you want it is gone.

I'm going to start being that. I don't like being twenty-two. I hate it more than anything in the world.

Tok? gilinim?si ? save be jokios paguodos, nepatenkint? saviraiškos troškim? ir jausm?, kad laikas nepaliaujamai, tuš?iai lekia pro šal?, palengvina tik ?sitikinimas, kad n?ra ko prarasti, nes visos pastangos ir laim?jimai taip pat bever?iai.

I'm sick of everything, and of the everythingness of everything.

I'm losing my taste for everything, including even my taste for finding everything tasteless.

I never paid any attention to people who told me to go out and live. I belonged always to whatever was far from me and to whatever I could never be. Anything that was not mine, however base, always seemed to me to be full of poetry. The only thing I ever loved was pure nothingness.

Ich bin der Zwischenraum zwischen dem, was ich bin, und dem, was ich nicht bin, zwischen dem, was ich träume, und dem, was das Leben aus mir gemacht hat, der abstrakte und leibliche Mittelwert zwischen Dingen, die nichts sind, da ich ebenfalls nichts bin. Welche Unruhe, wenn ich fühle, welch Unbehagen, wenn ich denke, welche Nutzlosigkeit, wenn ich will!

Yes, tedium is boredom with the world, the malaise of living, the weariness of having lived; in truth, tedium is the feeling in one's flesh of the endless emptiness of things.

Cum eu mi-am luat visurile drept realitate ÅŸi mi-am tr?it cât se poate mai intens propriile-mi visuri,acestea au f?cut s?-i creasc? un spin trandafirului fictiv al vieÅ£ii mele visate.Asrfel încât pân? ÅŸi visurile mele îmi displac,c?ci le g?sesc tot felul de defecte.

I want to tell you how the desire to achieve something far outstrips what we actually achieve. I want to recite to you the litany of despair while you listen intently. There is no work of art that could not have been more perfect. Read line by line, no poem, however great, has no single line that could not be improved upon, no episode that could not be more intense, and the whole is never so perfect that it could not be even more perfect.

There is no work of art that could not have been more perfect. Read line by line, no poem, however great, has no single line that could not be improved upon, no episode that could not be more intense, and the whole is never so perfect that it could not be even more perfect. Woe betide the artist who notices this, who one day thinks this. His work can never again be a joy, he will never again sleep peacefully. He'll become a young man bereft of youth and grow old discontentedly.

We secretly hate paradise.

I open the window. Everything outside is so gentle, yet it pierces me with an indefinable pain, a vague feeling of discontent.