Quotes About Suffering

War's never a winning thing, Charlie. You just lose all the time, and the one who loses last asks for terms. All I remember is a lot of losing and sadness and nothing good but the end of it. The end of it, Charles, that was a winning all to itself, having nothing to do with guns. But I don't suppose that's the kind of victory you boys mean for me to talk on.

Poverty made a sound like a wet cough in the shadows of the room.

Because her flesh knows heat, cold, affliction, I know fire, snow, and pain.

Sleep is a patch of death, but three in the morn, full wide-eyed staring, is living death! You dream with your eyes open. God, if you had the strength to rouse up, you'd slaughter your half-dreams with a buckshot! But no, you lie pinned to a deep well-bottom that's burned dry.

It was only the other night everything was fine and the next thing I know Im drowning. How many times can a man go down and still be alive? I can't breathe

Over the years, they had destroyed all of him, removing hands, arms, and legs and leaving him with substitutes as delicate and useless as chess pieces. And now they were tampering with something more intangible--the memory; they were trying to cut the wires which led back into another year.

Going away from the people who ate shadows for breakfast and steam for lunch and vapors for dinner.

How did this happen? It was only the other night everything was fine and the next thing I know I'm drowning. How many times can a man go down and still be alive?

The stuff of nightmare is their plain bread. They butter it with pain.

All he really knew was that if he stayed here he would soon be the property of things that buzzed and snorted and hissed, that gave off fumes or stenches. In six months, he would be the owner of a large pink, trained ulcer, a blood pressure of algebraic dimensions, a myopia this side of blindness, and nightmares as deep as oceans and infested with improbable lengths of dream intestines through which he must violently force his way each night.

Not about mean old nasty Mars, I tell you, mister! It's your type that is going to boil for years, and suffer and break out in black pimples and be tortured——" "I must admit Earth isn't very nice. You've described it beautifully.

No, said the old man, deep under. I don't remember anyone winning anywhere any time. War's never a winning things, Charlie. You just lose all the time, and the one who loses last asks for terms. All I remember is a lot of losing and sadness and nothing good but the end of it. The end of it, Charles, that was a winning all to itself, having nothing to do with guns. But I don't suppose that's the kind of victory you boys mean for me to talk on.

The suit caught light and stirred like a bed of black tweed-thorns, interminably itching, covering the man's long body with motion so it seemed he should excruciate, cry out, and tear the clothes free.

SavaÅŸ kazan?lan bir ÅŸey deÄŸildir Charlie. Sadece her zaman kaybedersin ve en son kaybeden ÅŸartlar? ortaya koyar. Hat?rlad???m her ÅŸey bir sürü kaybediÅŸ, üzüntü ve bittiÄŸinde hiçbir iyi ÅŸeyin olmad???. BittiÄŸi zaman Charles, art?k silahlarla iÅŸiniz kalmad???ndan, bu bile kendi ba??na bir kazan??. ...

Tú no estabas allí, tú no la viste —insistió él—. Tiene que haber algo en los libros, cosas que no podemos imaginar para hacer que una mujer permanezca en una casa que arde. Ahí tiene que haber algo. Uno no se sacrifica por nada.

It was only the other night everything was fine and the next thing I know I'm drowning. How many times can a man go down and still be alive? I can't breathe.

And still, strangely, they were not past the carnecería. The vision of red horror was on their left as they paced steadily forward on the hot tile sidewalk. The things that hung from hooks looked like brutalities and sins, like bad consciences, evil dreams, like gored flags and slaughtered promises. The redness, oh, the hanging, evil-smelling wetness and redness, the hooked and hung-high carcasses, unfamiliar, unfamiliar.

He felt her there, he saw her without opening his eyes, her hair burnt by chemicals to a brittle straw, her eyes with a kind of cataract unseen but suspect far behind the pupils, the reddened pouting lips, the body as thin as a praying mantis from dieting, and her flesh like white bacon.

Ä°nsanlar neden insanlara ac? vermek istiyor? Dünyada yeterince ac? yokmuÅŸ gibi, illa insanlar? öyle ÅŸeylerle rahats?z edeceksiniz!

the people who ate shadows for breakfast and steam for lunch and vapors for dinner

going away from the people who ate shadows for breakfast and steam for lunch and vapours for supper.

Arthur Koestler's Darkness at Noon

What Joyce called "the grave and constant" in human sufferings Campbell knew to be a principal theme of classic mythology.

suffering," he said, "is mortality itself, which is the prime condition of life.