Quotes About Suffering

Barbara ne pose pas de question. elle ne veut pas savoir ce qui s'est passé. Ce qu'elle sait, c'est que chacun ici reçoit son lot de malheurs et qu'il ne sert à rien de les partager, qu'en parler ne fait qu'alourdir le fardeau des autres. C'est une immense leçon de vie qu'elle n'oubliera jamais.

There are no friends, there is no safety net, all the money is used up. The days creep by like beetles, slow and beyond morality. There is no escape. Shame and nightmares. The horror of other people, having to function among them when you are broken and unfixable. There is no escape.

Pain and beauty, our constant bedfellows

Mummy was a swine: a scum-cunted, likkered-up, brain-sick swine. She was lazy and slothful and dirty and belligerent and altogether evil. Ma was a soak - a drunk - a piss-eyed hell-bag with a taste for the homebrew.

Es vienk?rši atkl?ju, ka š? pasaule ir p?rlieku smaga, lai taj? b?tu labs," saka Bannijs, tad aizver acis un, izp?tis elpu, sastingst.

If there was a thorn for every time that ah have died today,' ah thought, 'a thorn for every time that they have killed me, the world would be one big briar patch.

I don't particularly believe all love is doomed. But I guess, one is usually kinda suffering from some aborted love affair or association, rather than being at the peak of one. I think it's fairly obvious that a lot more suffering goes on in the name of love than the little happiness you can squeeze out of it.

I just found this world a hard place to be good in,' says Bunny, then he closes his eyes and, with an expiration of breath, goes still.

There Will Always Be Suffering It Flows Through Life Like Water

Writers, especially poets, are particularly prone to madness. There exists a striking association between creativity and manic depression. Why are more creative people prone to madness? They have more than average amounts of energies and abilities to see things in a fresh and original way—then because they also have depression, I think they're more in touch with human suffering.

If not for the rats you could crawl beneath a bush. A bush. A bench. The alliterative universe. Rats too can pass through that needle's eye to enter heaven. . . . This box held a refrigerator, the refrigerator is an apartment, a man is in the box. . . . Wake up on the grass, soaking wet. Dew is the piss of God. 'Another bullshit night in suck city, my father mutters.

But rejoice that you participate in the sufferings of Christ, so that you may be overjoyed when his glory is revealed. If you are insulted because of the name of Christ, you are blessed, for the Spirit of glory and of God rests on you. 1 PETER 4:13-14

You don't ask people with knives in their stomachs what would make them happy; happiness is no longer the point. It's all about survival; it's all about whether you pull the knife out and bleed to death or keep it in...

Wolves were burned alive, dragged to death behind horses, fed fishhooks inside meat, set free with mouths and penises wired shut.

Suffering must be obviously futile if it is to be 'educational'. It is for this reason that our history is so unintelligible, and indeed, nothing that was true has ever made sense. 'Why was so much pain necessary ?' we foolishly ask. But it is precisely because history has made no sense that we have learnt from it, and the lesson remains a brutal one.

What I can say with honesty is that my research in Russia and in Germany has brought me nothing but the worsening of my eyesight and the waste of years of my life. And I did it all for you.

Maybe if one person suffers anywhere in the world, we all have blood in our hands.

That's what I wanted from the world, to feel nothing. To feel nothing and not be involved, for everything to stay comfortably outside myself and not get in. How did people survive all this knowledge of suffering in the world? How did they carry it around, day after day, and not go mad?

I touched my reflection with a fingertip. My reflection felt nothing. That's what I wanted from the world, to feel nothing. To feel nothing and not be involved, for everything to stay comfortably outside myself and not get in. How did people survive all this knowledge of suffering in the world? How did they carry it around, day after day, and not go mad? And what would I wear tomorrow?

It was as their lady, dealer of wyrd and woe, that she judged the miserable bandits they chased down, the children, women, and men hauled cowering in groups of bramble thickets, hiding in twos in an overstood coppice, or sniveling along in a half-eaten bud in the lee of a rock.

The child would wake in the night to her mother's dream cries-a man coming to steal her, steal her child, steal her payment-and her mother would not eat, only hunch over the bowel and scry, and follow the girl about with haunted eyes.

Promises were useless in the face of torture.

She saw more blood in the snow that winter than she had in the whole of her life.

This was how it would be for her, she realised when Edwin king decided he no longer needed a seer. She would stand, plump and fed and brushed like a sacrificial cow, with gilded horns and a ribbon around her neck, too stupid to know she was being led to slaughter.