Quotes About Suffering

He was an object to laugh at - he was an object to weep over. His enemies, if a creature so wretched could have had enemies, would have forgiven him, on seeing him in his new dress. His friends - had any of his friends been left - would have been less distressed if they had looked at him in his coffin, than if they had looked at him as he was now.

Daha az duygusal olan kad?nlar?n fark?na bile varmayaca?? birçok önemsiz ayr?nt? onun duyarl? ruhu için ?st?rap kayna?? oluyordu. Hani mutsuz olmak için doÄŸmuÅŸ insanlar vard?r ya; iÅŸte o zavall? onlardan biriydi.

Bunlar? okuduktan sonra ba??m? yana çevirip yüreÄŸime saplanan sanc?y? belli etmemek için elimden geleni yapt?m. Onu çok sevdiÄŸimin fark?ndayd?m ama, o ana kadar derecesini bilmediÄŸimi anlam??t?m.

I think it will end here. When I can bear it no longer, I think it will end here.

Apparently beauty is born in suffering, and wisdom is the child of grief.

Yet he was not all unhappy: the peace and quiet which he had never had when sane were his now; Nature had had mercy on him when she made him mad. He caught his sister once weeping as she looked at him, and he could not understand her tears: "Lisbeth," he asked, "why do you cry? Are we not happy?" On one occasion he heard talk of books; his pale face lit up; "Ah!" he said, brightening, "I too have written

And then, again, the more distinctly a man knows—the more intelligent he is—the more pain he has; the man who is gifted with genius suffers most of all.

The total picture of life is almost too painful for contemplation; life depends on our not knowing it too well.

As long as there is poverty, there will be gods

These steeples, everywhere pointing upward, ignoring despair and lifting hope--these lofty city spires or simple chapels in the hills--they rise at every step from the earth to the sky; in every village of every nation on the globe they challenge doubt and invite weary hearts to consolation. Is it all a vain delusion? Is there nothing beyond life but death, and nothing beyond death but decay? We cannot know, but as long as men suffer, those steeples will remain

As long as there is poverty there will be gods."32

What crime have these children committed that they should be born? If

That is the way a white man remembers a battle. So many soldiers here, so many there. Such a captain here. Such a lieutenant there. This colonel in one place. That major in another. The horses precisely here, the cannon exactly there. But not an Indian. An Indian remembers where his mother fell bayoneted, or his little brother had his skull smashed, or his big sister cried for mercy and was shot in the mouth.

You hurt people. Killed people. But the saddest thing is --- you didn't do it because you didn't care. You did it because you cared too much. - Ben Kincaid

A Robin Redbreast in a Cage Puts all Heaven in a Rage. A dove house fill'd with doves and pigeons Shudders Hell thro' all its regions. A Dog starv'd at his Master's Gate Predicts the ruin of the State. A Horse misus'd upon the Road Calls to Heaven for Human blood. Each outcry of the hunted Hare A fiber from the Brain does tear.

Man was made for joy and woe Then when this we rightly know Through the world we safely go. Joy and woe are woven fine A clothing for the soul to bind.

How can a bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing?

The lamb misused breeds public strife And yet forgives the butcher's knife.

And I watered it in fears, Night and morning with my tears; And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles.

The cut worm forgives the plow.

Pity would be no more, If we did not make somebody poor. Mercy no more could be, If all were happy as we.

In every cry of every man, In every infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forged manacles I hear.

And we are put on earth a little space, that we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

Is this a holy thing to see, In a rich and fruitful land, Babes reduced to misery, Feed with cold and usurous hand? Is that trembling cry a song? Can it be a song of joy? And so many children poor? It is a land of poverty! And their sun does never shine, And their fields are bleak & bare, And their ways are fill'd with thorns; It is eternal winter there. For where-e'er the sun does shine, And where-e'er the rain does fall, Babe can never hunger there, Nor poverty the mind appall.