Quotes About Suffering

Sometimes I have a terrible feeling that I am dying not from the virus, but from being untouchable.

No easy thing, letting go. The pain I carried in my heart was constant and at times served as a comfort and a touchstone

My pupils are stabbed into my head like black thumbtacks pinning my entire face in place.

Inhumanity, n. One of the signal and characteristic qualities of humanity.

O Love! what cruelties are done in thy name! We think of thee as coming with a rose, and a song, and a smile.

Kissin' the dirt's the only way you'll see heaven.

On any given day, acts of kindness occur all across the city. Someone gives up their bed so someone else can rest their tired, aching bones. Someone hands a bit of change to a stranger. There's hot soup and good fortune, soft words and bread. Then there are the cruel things that happen, the worst that you can imagine. Heaven help you if even one of them finds you. The memory of it will never let you alone.

Yaralar?n hissedilmesi için tan?mlanmaya ihtiyaçlar? yoktur.

In the space of eighteen months three of the most renowned cities of the Arab world - Tripoli, Beirut, and Saida - had been taken and sacked, their inhabitants massacred or deported, their emirs, qadis[judges], and experts on religious law killed or forced into exile, their mosques profaned.

He was being offered a paradise which was shackled to a hell. How could he say yes, how could he say no.

La blessure n'a pas besoin d'être décrite pour être ressentie

I sought solace in the very thing that caused me pain.

On the other side of the river the lights of the South Bank theatre and concert halls were up. The actors would be preparing to perform emotions for those who had never felt those kinds of emotions in their lives and perhaps never would. Suffering had become a spectacle that served not to warn of the vagaries of misfortune but to remind the audience, sitting in warmth and comfort, of their own good fortune.

The glass dwellers were terrified of the cloche being lifted. They treated the suffering of others as something exceptional, something that required treatment, when what was exceptional was all this.

How had it happened that when choosing the men and women who were to be torn from this subjugated plain, the hand of destiny had stayed so far inland, away from the busy coastlines, to alight on the people who were, of all, the most stubbornly rooted in the silt of the Ganga, in a soil that had to be sown with suffering to yield its crop of story and song? It was as if fate had thrust its fist through the living flesh of the land in order to tear away a piece of its stricken heart.

I could never give it a name, my condition. I would have said, "I'm depressed," if that had felt sufficient. But I felt more than depressed. I felt that I was depression. A swallowed woman.

As soon as A observes something which seems to him to be wrong, from which X is suffering, A talks it over with B, and A and B then propose to get a law passed to remedy the evil and help X. Their law always proposes to determine…what A, B, and C shall do for X." But what about C? There was nothing wrong with A and B helping X. What was wrong was the law, and the indenturing of C to the cause. C was the forgotten man, the man who paid, "the man who never is thought of.

Almost everyone traverses their lifespan, from birth to death, with eyes closed. Even you and I, my dear Shmuel. With eyes closed. If we open our eyes for just a moment, a great and terrible cry will burst forth from us and we shall scream and never stop. And if we don't cry out day and night, that's a sign that our eyes are closed.

But when the fire was about to quench, their children came with whips and stones then they began to whip and stone our heads; when they left that, they began to climb on our heads and jump from one to the second; after that they started to spit, make urine and pass excreta on our heads; but when the eagle saw that they wanted to nail our heads, then it drove all of them away from the field with its beak.

She didn't believe, ever, that Jesus was going to deliver her to anything, anywhere. She said she absolutely did not believe that after two thousand years a white man was going to come back from his own lynching to help out Clara Williams or take her hand or be her friend.

She can paint a pretty picture but this story has a twist. The paintbrush is a razor and the canvas is her wrist.

She can paint a lovely picture, but this story has a twist. her paintbrush is a razor, and her canvas is her wrist.

Whoever decided that love should hurt sucks. It's been silent for too long, and I watch as Mom wipes a tear off her cheek. Whoever decided that life should hurt sucks even more.

She lifted the girl's shirt, showing her ribs and the pointy bumps of her spine. They were like the bones of some animal who'd starved to death in the desert. Her flesh, the dark sand blown in thin drifts over the bones.