Quotes About Suffering

To every man his little cross. (He sighs.) Till he dies. (Afterthought.) And is forgotten.

That's how it is on this bitch of an earth.

Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it's awful.

Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.

Time is the only true purgatory.

To give pain is the tyranny to make happy, the true empire of beauty.

He does not like this branch of his profession — indeed he hates it — but will not admit it to himself. The habit of not admitting things to himself has become a confirmed one with him. Nevertheless there haunts him an ill defined sense that life would be pleasanter if there were no sick sinners, or if they would at any rate face an eternity of torture with more indifference. He does not feel that he is in his element. The

It was very good of God to let Carlyle and Mrs. Carlyle marry one another and so make only two people miserable instead of four.

Medicine would be the ideal profession if it did not involve giving pain.

Of all the griefs that harass the distressed, sure the most bitter is a scornful jest

All the arguments which are brought to represent poverty as no evil show it evidently to be a great evil.

Hope itself is a species of happiness, and, perhaps, the chief happiness which this world affords; but, like all other pleasures immoderately enjoyed, the excesses of hope must be expiated by pain.

Disease generally begins that equality which death completes.

This is my history; like all other histories, a narrative of misery.

Wretched un-idea'd girls.

Of all the griefs that harass the distrest, Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest.

He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.

God's inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn.

I went out to Charing Cross, to see Major-General Harrison hanged, drawn, and quartered; which was done there, he looking as cheerful as any man could do in that condition.

this disease making us more cruel to one another than if we are doggs.

I was born," the Mouse said. "I must die. I am suffering. Help me. There, I just wrote your book for you.

But I realized something. About art. And psychiatry. They're both self-perpetuating systems. Like religion. All three of them promise you a sense of inner worth and meaning, and spend a lot of time telling you about the suffering you have to go through to achieve it.

His bare foot was calloused enough for gravel and glass. But ash kept working between his foot and his remaining sandal to grind like finest sand, work its way under, and silt itself with his sweat. His heel was almost sore.

The pleasures of love are really quite wonderful--though I suspect they are rather a luxury and require a certain level of socioeconomic stability to be anything other than a mode of suffering.