Quotes About Suffering

Hang me, oh, hang me, so I'll be dead and gone. I wouldn't mind hanging, boys, but you wait in jail so long.

I understood. I suffered. But whose sake was I suffering for? I kept thinking of Señor Saguaro's question: Whose affection do you value more, hers or the others'?

I'm so dopesick, my tears taste like urine. It's as if the air itself were made of broken glass. I try to stop twitching. To stay still, to stop my very breath, let the pain stay inside. The slightest movement grinds tiny shards into my pores. Breathing is like gulping from a bag of claws. I want to die. Want to pass out. Want to stop...this...fucking...feeling.

There's no deodorant for desperation.

Perhaps the world would soon become one vast incinerator for burning people.

Someone jabbed me from behind with a rake. I jumped aside. Someone else pricked me with a sharp prong. Again I sprang away, crying loudly. The crowd became more lively. A stone struck me. I lay down, face to the earth, not wishing to know what might happen next. My head was being bombarded with dried cow dung, moldy potatoes, apple cores, handfuls of dirt, and small stones. I covered my face with my hands and screamed into the dust which covered the road.

One time we attended a child with a rotting leg, covered with wrinkled brown skin, from which a bloody yellow pus oozed. The stench from the leg was so strong that even Olga had to open the door every few moments and let in a draft of fresh air. All day long I stared at the gangrenous leg while the child alternately sobbed and fell asleep.

Brother fought against brother, fathers swung axes against sons in front of their mothers. An invisible force divided people, split families, addled brains. Only the elders remained sane, scurrying from one side to the other, begging the combatants to make peace. They cried in their squeaky voices that there was enough war in the world without starting one in the village.

From God's point of view it seemed to make more sense if everyone lost the war, since everyone was committing murder.

Here and there nurses directed emaciated people in striped clothes; the soldiers looked at them in sudden silence—those were the people saved from the furnaces who were returning to life from the concentration camps.

He was changed, burned, branded, destroyed and rebuilt. And he loved it.

He flushed with sadness, as if every moment of his life were occurring all at once—his sister dying in childbirth, his mother squirming in that one-room flop, poor Danny sliding between wet logs, Gig in jail, and Jules dead—and how many more? All people, except this rich cream, living and scraping and fighting and dying, and for what, nothing, the cold millions with no chance in this world.

my money guy Richard is going without a tie now, like a politician who wants to appeal to the suffering common man (or perhaps every morning his firm takes the ties and shoelaces away from the brokers and financial planners to keep them from offing themselves)

Io ti maledico a morire lentamente, tormentato dalla tua anima miserabile!" I curse you to a

How can you not feel like a whole city of people waiting for it to finally be over, a whole city tending a parent's slow death?

I imagine that anyone who goes through trauma like I have wonders the same things I do: how God can exist and allow such awful things to happen. There are no reasons for my parents' death, and that's that.

I watched love and life play out in a million ways, but one of the best things I learned was this: You don't outrun pain.

Sometimes...you can cry until there's nothing wet in you. You can scream and curse to where your throat rebels and ruptures. You can pray, all you want, to whatever god you think will listen. And, still it makes no difference. It goes on, with no sign as to when it might release you. And you know that if it ever did relent...it would not be because it cared.

Time has no meaning. I feel as if I have been left in the desert to die and am eagerly awaiting the vultures to begin their work and end my misery.

All we do our prayers our work our suffering is for Jesus. Our life has no other reason or motivation.

The body grows by food and work, the mind by use, and the soul through joy and pain.

Women were victims. Their husbands could beat them up when they wanted to. They couldn't work. They could be maimed and killed by their husbands.

Our epoch has been called the century of work. It is in fact the century of pain, misery and corruption.

If you work with your mind, that will alleviate all the suffering that seems to come from the outside.