Quotes About Suffering

You bastards, she thought. You lovely bastards. Don't make me happy. Please, don't fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this. Look at my bruises. Look at this graze. Do you see the graze inside me? Do you see it growing before your very eyes, eroding me? I don't want to hope for anything anymore. I don't want to pray that Max is alive and safe. Or Alex Steiner. Because the world does not deserve them.

A GUIDED TOUR OF SUFFERING: To your left, perhaps your right, perhaps even straight ahead, you find a small black room. In it sits a Jew. He is scum. He is starving. He is afraid. Please - try not to look away.

In the basement of 33 Himmel Street, Max Vandenburg could feel the fists of an entire nation. One by one they climbed into the ring to beat him down. They made him bleed. They let him suffer. Millions of them--until one last time, when he gathered himself to his feet...

As she watched all of this, Liesel was certain that these were the poorest souls alive. That's what she wrote about them . . . Some looked appealingly at those who had come to observe their humiliation, this prelude to their deaths. Others pleaded for someone, anyone to step forward and catch them in their arms. No one did.

The pain of WATCHING them! What about their pain?

It would then be brought abruptly to an end, for the brightness had shown suffering the way.

Stars of David were plastered to their shirts, and misery was attached to them as if assigned. Don't forget your misery... In some cases, it grew on them like a vine.

Don't make me happy. Please, don't fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this. Look at my bruises. Look at this graze. Do you see this graze inside me? Do you see it before your very eyes, eroding me? I don't want to hope for anything more.

I don't want to hope for anything anymore. I don't want to pray that Max is alive and safe. Or Alex Steiner. Because the world did not deserve them.

No veis la herida que tengo dentro? ¿No veis cómo se extiende y me corroe ante vuestros ojos? No quiero volver a tener esperanzas.

Los minutos eran crueles. Las horas mortificantes. Durante los momentos de desvelo, sobre él pendía inexorablemente la mano del tiempo, la cual no dudaba en estrujarlo. Le sonreía, lo retorcía y lo dejaba vivir. Qué gran maldad puede encubrir la prolongación de una vida.

Don't make me happy. Please, don't fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this. Look at my bruises. Look at this graze. Do you see the graze inside me? Do you see it growing before your very eyes, eroding me? I don't want to hope for anything anymore. I don't want to pray that Max is alive and safe. Or Alex Steiner. Because the world does not deserve them.

the city around us seemed colder than ever again, and I realised that even if it really had sensed something going on, it certainly didn't care. It moved forward again. I could feel it. I could almost hear it laugh and taste it. Close. Watching. Mocking. And it was cold, so cold, as it watched my sister bleeding at the back of our house.

When the elderly Jew climbed to his feet for the last time and continued on, he looked briefly back. He took a last sad glance at the man who was kneeling now himself, whose back was burning with four lines of fire, whose knees were aching on the road. If nothing else, the old man would die like a human. Or at least with the thought that he was a human.

We all have our duties here. We all suffer. We all endure our setbacks for the greater good of mankind.

Bold and bright, a trilogy of happiness would continue for a summer's duration and into autumn. It would then be brought abruptly to an end, for the brightness had shown suffering the way. Hard times were coming. Like a parade.

God, there were so many of them. So many sets of dying eyes and scuffing feet.

People die of broken hearts. They have heart attacks. And it's the heart that hurts most when things go wrong and fall apart.

THE FILES OF RECOLLECTION* * * Oh, yes, I definitely remember him The sky was murky and deep like quicksand. There was a young man parceled up in barbed wire, like a giant crown of thorns. I untangled him and carried him out. High above the earth, we sank together, to our knees. It was just another day, 1918.

It was the best time of her life. But it was bombing carpet. Make no mistake. Bold and bright, a trilogy of happiness would continue for summer's duration and into autumn. It would then be brought abruptly to an end, for the brightness had shown suffering the way.

It was a place nobody wanted to stay and look at, but almost everyone did. Shaped like a long, broken arm, the road contained several houses with lacerated windows and bruised walls. The Star of David was painted on their doors. Those houses were almost like lepers. At the very least, they were infected sores on the injured German terrain.

The word communist + a large bonfire + a collection of dead letters + the suffering of her mother + the death of her brother = the Führer

He would suffer before he'd belong, unable to show himself easily; a preference for greater hope—to find someone who would know him completely.

You could see how hard he loved her. His heart was so obliterated, but he found the will to work it. He was tired, so tired, in the porch light. Just bits-and-pieces of a man.