Quotes About Discontent

I know nothing about nature. I hate nature, because it is killing me.

On the one hand we can't be alone, people like us; on the other we can't stand company. We can't stand male company, which bores us to death, or female company either. I gave up male company for years because it's totally unprofitable, and female company gets on my nerves in no time.

That he was actually born into a giant fortune, all his life hadn't had any use for this giant fortune, had always been unhappy with this giant fortune, I thought. That his parents had been unable, as they say, to open his eyes, that they were the ones who depressed the child, I thought.

In never-ending efforts to defeat incumbent officeholders in hard times, the public is perpetuating the source of its discontent, electing a new group of people who are even less inclined to or capable of crafting compromise or solutions to pressing problems.

I have felt lately, more and more, that my present way of living is bad in every respect.

But what between the poor men I won't have, and the rich men who won't have me, I stand as a pelican in the wilderness!

What depressed you? Life.

A little rebellion is good now and then.

all. I like a little rebellion now and then. It is like a storm in the Atmosphere.

A little rebellion now and then is a good thing

Quiere decir, malicioso? Sí, soy un poco malicioso –dijo Settembrini–. Lo que lamento es estar condenado a malgastar mi maldad en cosas tan miserables.

It would lead him back, restore him to himself, but there is nothing so distasteful as being restored to oneself when one is beside oneself.

a born objector, I saw that at once, down on the existing order; and that always gives me the impression that the person is spoilt—I can't help it.

The earthly desires men cherish are shadows. There is no true happiness in fulfilling them. Why, then, do we continue to pursue joys without substance? Because the pursuit itself has become our only substitute for joy. Unable to rest in anything we achieve, we determine to forget our discontent in a ceaseless quest for new satisfactions. In this pursuit, desire itself becomes our chief satisfaction.

IF you write for God you will reach many men and bring them joy. If you write for men—you may make some money and you may give someone a little joy and you may make a noise in the world, for a little while. If you write only for yourself you can read what you yourself have written and after ten minutes you will be so disgusted you will wish that you were dead.

Moi je me marre et je suis pauvre, vous vous emmerdez et vous êtes riche.

The movement of descent and discovery begins at the moment you consciously become dissatisfied with life. . . . Concealed within this basic unhappiness with life and existence is the embryo of a growing intelligence, a special intelligence, usually buried under the immense weight of social shams. A person who is beginning to sense the suffering of life is, at the same time, beginning to "awaken" to deeper realities, truer realities.4

I need anything, anything that will stop me from living in the kind of death the bourgeois eat, the death called comfort.

However, it was also the mounting discontent among Africn Americans, feminists, and gay activists that challenged the widespread acceptance and commercial exploitation of the governing beauty ideals.

No, I didn't enjoy that in the least. Do it again so I can not enjoy it some more.

What I hate most is the majority that rests in comfort upon its mediocre accomplishments.

Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing.

I got the fat poet into a corner and told him he was writing shit and couldn't get away with it Now it is night and time for sleep. Everyone is tired from garbage-glutting lifting their snouts from the trough long enough to ease their gut— I won't urge the point. Gold-plated poems to stuff up their mind's ass or politics watered down so as not to scare the blue bloods Boo! you well-fed bastards

The most we can do is to die--contented, discontent; With a few to wonder why, and whither our spirit went, And what the interval meant!