Quotes About Suffering

Perhaps our planet is learning to appreciate the extraordinary wonder of life that surrounds even our suffering, and to say Yes, if through the thickest of tears.

It is because when you truly love someone you wish them no suffering, although they must suffer, just in the course of life. You are always reaching out to them, to heal them. They instinctively do the same for you.

Dear God, Harpo ast his daddy why he beat me. Mr —— say, Cause she my wife. Plus, she stubborn. All women good for – he don't finish. He just tuck his chin over the paper like he do. Remind me of Pa.

He beat me when you not here, I say.

THEY DO NOT WANT to hear what their children suffer. They've made the telling of the suffering itself taboo.

If every man in this courtroom had had his penis removed, what then? Would they understand better that that condition is similar to that of all the women in this room? That, even as we sit here, the women are suffering from the unnatural constrictions of flesh their bodies have been whittled and refashioned into?

Can't you see I'm already half dead.

On entering a place where animals are bred, my first thoughts are always about enslavement. Force. Captivity.

Life was giving birth to children—who could have no memory of anything other than brutal enslavement—then dying and being tossed into a ravine or buried at the edge of a swamp or field.

Living is more than surviving and scraping by as if one should be grateful to have a pulse.

Dicen que el dolor adopta muchas formas, incluyendo la ausencia del dolor.

History does not care about the suffering of the individual. Only the outcome of their struggles.

This obsession with death and suffering revealed itself in literature, poetry, art, and particularly in sculpture, with the appearance of cadaver tombs with an effigy of the deceased in life above, and another depicting his or her rotting corpse below—a grisly reminder of the end of all flesh.

The hero surviving his own murder, his own suicide, his own addiction, surviving his own disappearance from the scene

Millions of fathers in rain Millions of mothers in pain Millions of brothers in woe Millions of sisters nowhere to go Millions of daughters walk in the mud Millions of children wash in the flood A million girls vomit and groan Millions of families hopeless alone

Machine chaos on Earth, Too many bodies, mouths bleeding on every Continent

I don't want to suffer any more, I have had my mind broken open over and over before, I have been isolate and loveless always. I have not slept with anyone since I saw you, not because I was faithful but because I am afraid and I know no one. I will always be afraid I will always be worthless, I will always be alone till I die and I will be tormented long after you leave me.

Banks burn, boys die bullet-eyed, mothers scream realization the vast tonnage of napalm

who were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality. . .

Mothers weep and Sons be dumb your brothers and children murder the beautiful yellow bodies of Indochina in dreams invented for your eyes by TV

Assuming I am mad (Ha!) god, how I must have suffered to go mad. And all the time I was calling to people to save me and no one put out his hand and held it. This is like suicide, only I am alive and looking out of this living death I can see the people weep and feel sorry. Alas, nobody even weeps. It's all a dream.

The world knows the love that's in its breast as in the flower, the suffering lonely world. — Allen Ginsberg, from "Transcription of Organ Music," Howl and Other Poems (City Lights Books, 1994)

The world knows the love that's in its breast as in the flower, the suffering lonely world.

the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death, and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.