Quotes About Discontent

Politicians today are not highly regarded... there seem to be people young and old and in the middle saying that they have never heard such wretched debates.

I hated being a novelist when I was 20 - I had nothing to write about.

After high school, I worked as a messenger boy at a local bank. I was miserable. I felt like Robin Hood chained in the Sheriff of Nottingham's dungeon. As a would-be writer, I thought it was a catastrophe. As a bank employee, I could barely add or subtract and had to count on my fingers.

Sometimes thought Liir-his first thought in weeks and weeks-sometimes I hate this marvelous land of ours. It's so much like home, and then it holds out on you.

I didn't think friendship required this much, snapped Elphaba to Boq, I was better off before.

A burnt broom that has had enough, and refuses to burn further...

You hate your destination so much you want to postpone showing up for as long as possible.

She was as sated with him as he was tired of her. Emma had rediscovered in adultery all the banality of marriage.

Se conocían demasiado para gozar de aquellos embelesos de la pasión que centuplican su gozo. Ella estaba tan hastiada de él como él cansado de ella. Emma volvía a encontrar en el adulterio todas las soserías del matrimonio

Emma still had a joyless look, and, habitually, at the corners of her mouth, she had that tightness that crumples the faces of old maids and bankrupts.

She still was not happy, she never had been. What caused this inadequacy in her life? Why did everything she leaned on instantaneously decay?..

In spite of her vapourish airs (as the housewives of Yonville called them), Emma, all the same, never seemed gay, and usually she had at the corners of her mouth that immobile contraction that puckers the faces of old maids, and those of men whose ambition has failed.

Sometimes they opened a book and closed it again; what was the point? On other days they had the idea of tidying up the garden, but after a quarter of an hour they felt tired; or of looking at their farm, but they came back sick at heart; or doing household jobs, but Germaine cried out in protest; they gave up.

In spite of her giddy airs (the phrase used by the bourgeois wives of Yonville), Emma still had a joyless look, and, habitually, at the corners of her mouth, she had that tightness that crumples the faces of old maids and bankrupts.

Her ÅŸey bir yana, aramaya deÄŸmezdi asl?nda; her ÅŸey bir yaland?. Her gülüÅŸ alt?nda bir parça s?kk?nl?k, her neÅŸe bir lanet, tüm o ÅŸevkler ise bir doygunluk gizlerdi ve tüm o dünya tatl?s? öpücükler dudaklarda sadece daha güzeli için ula??lamaz bir haz b?rakt?.

se aflau în acea perioad? în care, în c?sniciile destr?mate, rezultatul concesiilor f?cute este o oboseal? de neînvins, care face existenÈ›a greu de suportat./ ... ils en étaient à cette période où, dans les unions disparates, une invincible lassitude ressort des concessions que l'on s'est faites et rend l'existence intolérable. (©BeQ)

Ciom?giÈ›i-l pe s?racul care rîvneÈ™te la p?tura de pe spinarea m?garului, la mîncarea cîinelui, la cuibul p?s?rii, È™i care e foarte mîhnit c? alÈ›ii nu sînt la fel de nenorociÈ›i ca el.(Circoncelionii)

Ils se connaissaient trop pour avoir ces ébahissements de la possession qui en centuplent la joie. Elle était aussi dégoûtée de lui qu'il était fatigué d'elle. Emma retrouvait dans l'adultère toutes les platitudes du mariage.

Emma mordía sus labios pálidos, y dando vueltas entre sus dedos a una ramita del polípero que había roto, clavaba sobre Carlos la punta ardiente de sus pupilas, como dos flechas de fuego dispuestas para disparar. Todo —en él le irritaba ahora, su cara, su traje, lo que no decía, su persona entera, en fin, su existencia.

Elle aurait voulu que ce nom de Bovary, qui était le sien, fût illustre, le voir étalé chez les libraires, répété dans les journaux, connu par toute la France. Mais Charles n'avait point d'ambition

His life had gone by without adventures, without passions, almost without hopes. The facility of dreaming, planted in every man, had never blossomed in the narrow bed of his ambitions.

Monsieur Lerebour was short, round and jovial, with the joviality of a shopkeeper who liked to do himself well. His wife, who was thin, self-willed and perpetually discontented, had still not succeeded in overcoming her husband's good humour.

The smile floating on her lips. She's bored as well. She feels a bit guilty since she should feel great, there with all her family—but she suppresses a yawn. She'd rather be elsewhere. She's no longer used to long meals. She never liked them, by the way. I realize that I'm trying to invent a life for her. That's the problem with literature. One narrates. One embroiders. One adds material.

Mathilde suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born to enjoy all delicacies and all luxuries. She was distressed at the poverty of her dwelling, at the bareness of the walls, at the shabby chairs, the ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another woman of her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made her angry.