Quotes About Suffering

I know: yes, no, even I must tear off The delicate daisy petals. Everyone on earth is destined to feel The torments of love.

All my contemporaries— hundred-and-fivers or convicts— will tell you how we lived in barely sentient fear, raising children for the executioner, prison, or the torture chamber.

Place down the poison right before me To take my voice out of my chest And wash away my shameful glory Into the gleaming nothingness.

The poet has to die many times, Foolish child: he himself chose this way - He couldn't bear the first outrage, He didn't know at what door he stood, He didn't understand what kind of road Would open up before him...

And so the decades file by, torture, Deportations, executions. Sing — You see... I can't

Like a white stone at the bottom of the well, One memory lies in me. I cannot and I do not want to struggle, It is both joy and suffering. I think that anyone who looks into my Eyes will all at once see him. More sad and pensive he'll become That heard the story of this suffering. I know that the gods had turned People to objects, without killing mind, That divine sadness lived eternally. You're turned into my memory, I find.

Ahora sé cómo se desvanecen los rostros, cómo bajo los párpados anida el terror, cómo el dolor traza en las mejillas rudas páginas cuneiformes, cómo unos rizos cenicientos y negros se tornan plateados de repente, la sonrisa se marchita en los labios dóciles y en una risa seca tiembla el pavor. y no sólo por mí rezo, sino por quienes permanecieron allí conmigo, en el frío feroz y en el infierno de Julio, bajo el muro rojo y ciego

Wiem ju?, jak si? twarz zapada w sobie, Jak wzrok gasi b?onka strachu szklista, Jak cierpienie na policzkach ??obi Twarde znaki klinowego pisma, Jak si? jasne albo czarne w?osy W mgnieniu oka w srebro zmieni? mog?, Jak si? u?miech z pokornych warg p?oszy I jak suchy ?miech dygocze trwog?. I nie modl? si? za siebie, Bo?e: Za nas wszystkie, ustawione sznurem W skwarze lipca i w styczniowym mrozie Pod czerwonym ociemnia?ym murem.

Durasse per sempre il buio, nessuno mi riconoscerebbe per donna, inferno per me, male per gli altri.

She meant depressions, for da had had them: big, massive, scudding, whopping, black-cloud, infectious, crow, raven, jackdaw, coffin-upon-coffin, catacomb-upon-catacomb, skeletons-upon-skulls-upon-bones crawling along the ground to the grave type of depressions.

Most people have no imagination. If they could imagine the sufferings of others, they would not make them suffer so.

one does not remember one's own pain. It is the suffering of others that undoes us

People were crazy with pain and secrets.

Es ist Jahre her, da hatte das Leben für sie aufgegeben, als Charles auf schmerzhafte Weise bewusst wurde, wie schwer es ihm fiel, die Pläne für das Projekt zu lesen, das andere das Leben nannten.

Mais c'est magnifique de souffrir quand on est en bonne santé. C'est un privilège ! Il n'ya que les morts qui ne souffrent plus ! Réjouis-toi, ma belle ! Va, cours, vole, espère, plante-toi, saigne ou festoie, mais vis ! Vis un peu !

Un mundo en el que todo el mundo se suicida así: a fuego lento y arrastrando consigo a los más débiles.

Ocurre a menudo que en amor nos sintamos engañados, heridos y desgraciados, pero seguimos amando. Y, con un pie en la tumba, volvemos la vista atrás y nos decimos: Muchas veces sufrí, algunas erré, pero siempre amé.

Where your pain is, there your heart lies also.

The last time she had seen him in the flesh, all the vital force of his life stripped away, his sharpened face had confronted her with such a fearful fixed finality of sightless indifference that she had been frozen in mortal terror, engulfed by abysmal despair. After all the years of unfailing support, his huge, inhuman, deaf, blind inaccessibility was horrifying. He had not kept his promise. He had abandoned her, left her to suffer alone.

But to whom can one appeal when one does not even know where to find the judge? How can one ever hope to prove one's innocence when there is no means of knowing of what one has been accused? No, there's no justice for people like us in the world: all that we can do is to suffer as bravely as possible and put our oppressors to shame.

Where do I always find enough courage for one last hope? I am the enemy of this indestructible, pitiless hope which prolongs and intensifies all my pain. I would like to lay hold of hope and strangle it once and for all.

To wait - only to wait - without even the final merciful deprivation of hope. Sometimes I think that some secret court must have tried and condemned me, unheard, to this heavy sentence.

I said I wanted to see her. 'You can't.' He turned the key, dropped it into his pocket, threw a pistol down on the table. 'She's dead.' A knife went through me. All other deaths in the world were outside; this one was in my body, like a bayonet, like my own.

One of the most oft-quoted records of the siege, scribbled in pencil over the pages of a pocket address book, is that kept by twelve-year-old Tanya Savicheva: 28 December 1941 at 12.30 a.m. – Zhenya died. 25 January 1942 at 3 p.m. – Granny died. 17 March at 5 a.m. – Lyoka died. 13 April at 2 a.m. – Uncle Vasya died. 10 May at 4 p.m. – Uncle Lyosha died. 13 May at 7.30 a.m. – Mama died. The Savichevs are dead. Everyone is dead. Only Tanya is left.