Quotes About Suffering

There was money enough... but she asked so much of life, in ways so complex and immaterial. He thought of her as walking bare-footed through a stony waste. No one would understand her- no one would pity her- and he, who did both, was powerless to come to her aid.

She was like some rare flower grown for exhibition, a flower from which every bud had been nipped except the crowning blossom of her beauty.

The inexorable facts closed in on him like prison-warders handcuffing a convict. There was no way out—none. He was a prisoner for life, and now his one ray of light was to be extinguished.

You gave me my first glimpse of a real life, and at the same moment you asked me to go on with a sham one. It's beyond human enduring--that's all.

That man touch a hundred? He looks as if he was dead and in hell now!

and my heart tightened for the hard compulsions of the poor.

Granice was overcome by the futility of any further attempt to inculpate himself. He was chained to life - a 'prisoner of consciousness'.

O what auailes it of immortall seed To beene ybred and neuer borne to die? Farre better I it deeme to die with speed, Then waste in woe and wailefull miserie. Who dyes the vtmost dolour doth abye, But who that liues, is left to waile his losse: So life is losse, and death felicitie. Sad life worse then glad death: and greater crosse To see friends graue, then dead the graue selfe to engrosse.

O why doe wretched men so much desire, To draw their dayes vnto the vtmost date, And doe not rather wish them soone expire, Knowing the miserie of their estate, And thousand perills which them still awate, Tossing them like a boate amid the mayne, That euery houre they knocke at deathes gate? And he that happie seemes and least in payne, Yet is as nigh his end, as he that most doth playne.

Guy thought of the Greek word agon , wasn't it at once an athletic contest and a style of suffering, an agony?

I thought that to write of my own experiences would require a translation out of the crude patois of actual slow suffering—mean, scattered thoughts and transfusion-slow boredom—into the tidy couplets of brisk, beautiful sentiment, a way of at once elevating and lending momentum to what I felt.

Yes, the living, the mangled, the scarified, with the crazed responsibility of remembering everything, everything.

On the island of tears, we were subjected to every kind of humiliation

Wakened one morning in some dive to know the game was up. Nausea, the shivers, the disease that bums, stevedores, poets, and the city elders all fell foul to. The syph. Had to be burned out of him. Oh man, the mercury that cured also took away, a descent into blindness. "I have sewed sackcloth upon my skin and defiled my horn in the dust.

I had clung to the fable of the Steppenwolf, believing that his redemption would also become mine.

I had no night terrors. Maybe when your real life becomes the terror, there's just nothing left to dream about

History is indeed little more than the register of crimes, follies, and misfortunes of mankind.

Our sympathy is cold to the relation of distant misery.

snick! snick! snick! "Lordy, this is fun!" After a lot more snickin', all them fingers'n toes'd been clipped right off, an' Dicky could see 'em sittin' there on the ground. Weren't much blood, though, on account'a how tight Balls'd tied the wrists'n ankles. "Lookit! The big dumb cracker's passin' out.

Morris chopped off the girl's hand with a hatchet then guttered laughter. The poor mulato wailed, her stump pumping. What'choo do that for! Cutton bellowed. He hadn't even gotten his trousers off before Morris had pulled this move.

Sartre, Kierkegaard, Heidegger: cool guys, smart, lotta meat between the ears on those fellas, and certainly trying to define who we are in the world or the universe is a noble undertaking. But isn't it somewhat as legitimate to try to define the reason why people do the horrible things they do? It's a fascinating query for me. It's a kick. Hence, my plight. I write horror.

Moses had thought that it was already a strange world that made him a slave to a white man, but God had indeed set it twirling and twisting every which way when he put black people to owning their own kind. Was God even up there attending to business anymore?

He stood there for a very long time, and the longer he stood, the more he sank. All the heart he had for living in the world began to leave him. He could feel the life running down his chest, his arms and legs, doing something for the ground that it had never been able to do for him.

The free men in Manchester knew the tenuousness of their lives and always endeavored to be upstanding; they knew they were slaves with just another title.