Quotes About Suffering

Nu sunt atât de laÈ™ ca s? îmi fie team? c? fac pe cineva s? sufere atunci când trebuie s-o fac.

It gnaws at her, I'm sure of it, but slowly, patiently: she takes the upper hand, she is able neither to console herself nor abandon herself to her suffering. She thinks about it a little bit, a very little bit, now and again she passes it on. Especially when she is with people, because they console her and also because it comforts her a little to talk about it with poise, with an air of giving advice. When she is alone in the rooms I hear her humming to keep herself from thinking.

In Avenue Foch, however, in the Rue des Saussaies, we would hear from neighboring buildings, all day long and late into the night, cries of suffering and terror. There was nobody in Paris who did not have a relative or friend arrested or deported or shot. It appeared that there were hidden holes in the city and that it emptied itself through these holes as if from an internal and incurable hemorrhage.

Man must create his own essence: it is in throwing himself into the world, suffering there, struggling there, that he gradually defines himself.

Le génie n'est qu'un prêt: il faut le mériter par de grandes souffrances, par des épreuves modestement, fermement traversées; on finit par entendre des voix et l'on écrit sous la dictée.

jag vet på förhand att dagen är tillspillogiven. Jag kommer inte att göra någonting bra förrän kanske natten faller på. Det beror på solen; den kastar ett svagt guldskimmer över den smutsvita rök som hänger i luften över järnvägen, den silar in i mitt rum, blond och blek och ritar på bordet fyra matta, falska reflexer.

Mein augenblickliches Leben ist nicht besonders glanzvoll, [...]

Suffering just means you're having a bad dream. Happiness means you're having a good dream. Enlightenment means getting out of the dream altogether.

All fear is ultimately fear of no-self.

Why bother inflicting enormous pain on yourself when sooner or later Life would certainly get around to doing it for you?

What a terrible thing life can be.

It had been my experience that fatherhood was mostly a matter of suffering the insufferable, tolerating the intolerable, and changing diapers.

But it is a truism of life that no matter how much we are suffering, nobody else cares—generally speaking, nobody even notices.

And it is: a true temple of suffering, and tonight we are its priest, master of the rites, and we will lead him through our ritual and into the last epiphany, to the final release into grace. We

His hair had not grown back in the last hour, but he had at least changed out of the orange coverall and into a white terry-cloth robe and he was lying there in the middle of the bed shaved, shaking, and sweating heavily with a half-empty bottle of Skyy Vodka lying beside him. Deborah didn't even slow down at the door. She charged right over to the bed and sat beside him, taking his only hand in her only hand. Love among the ruins.

Of course, that made it seem even worse: I had killed for room service. What a terrible, low creature I was. I wondered whether I should feel cheap and tawdry, or perhaps just jaded and callous. How much lower could I sink? I was already indifferent to the suffering of my victims, so I couldn't really try to make that fit a new and colder me, if there actually was one.

The rest of her seemed to be just as thoroughly ravaged; her nipple was missing, apparently chewed away like the ear, and her stomach had been slit open right below the navel. I could see at least three wounds that might have killed her, and a dozen more that would have been horrible enough to make death seem like a good idea.

I went. I was not really awake yet, and still suffering from psychological whiplash from my treatment at the hands of Rita and Debs, but I went.

Being dead doesn't hurt at all. It's being alive that hurts. And it's a lot more dangerous than being dead, too.

Would he paddle away any faster if he knew that there was no iron-barred room, no handcuffs, and no arrest churning happily along in his wake? That the only justice for him will be the final kind, from the High Court of Pain, and his rights are limited to only one: He has the right to shuffle off his mortal coil and spin away into the Dark Forever, and there is no appeal, no parole, and no way out at all.

Well, if there was any real reward for complaining I hadn't seen it so far, in a life filled with suffering and verbal skill. So I might as well take what was offered and see where it led.

No one knew how to end it. The war had settled into unbearable, unwinnable battles. It had reached a point where there were no more victories, only death.

Tis only those who have never heard a shot, never heard the shriek and groans of the wounded or lacerated…that cry aloud for more blood, more vengeance, more desolation.

May God have mercy on us all.