Quotes About Suffering

Dying would have been so much easier.

That prison, I said with heartfelt sincerity, Was absolutely the most awful thing that has happened to me in my entire life. I could tell by the way he looked at me that he thought my life had been filled with one awful thing after another.

He should have said something, why hadn't he? Costis wondered. In fact, the king had. He had complained at every step all the way across the palace, and they'd ignored it. If he'd been stoic and denied the pain, the entire palace would have been in a panic already, Eddisian soldiers on the move. He'd meant to deceive them, and he'd succeeded. It made Costis wonder for the first time just how much the stoic man really wants to hide when he unsuccessfully pretends not to be in pain.

I wonder if people always choose what will make them unhappy.

It made Costis wonder for the first time just how much the stoic man really wants to hide when he unsuccessfully pretends not to be in pain.

What he brought out was a wooden gag they put in someone's mouth before doing something drastic, like cutting off a leg.

Your Majesty! Hilarion was close to begging. Everyone is waiting. Tell them I died. Your Majesty... Died, Hilarion. In the night, peacefully. Why would I do that? Because then you could all go away and leave me alone.

All wars make men monsters, all wars and all men." "And women?" he asked. "Women, too," Attolia confirmed.

There is a loneliness to illness, a child's desire to be pitied and seen. But it is precisely this recognition that is elusive. How can you explain and identify your condition if not one has any grasp of what it is you suffer from and the symptoms wax and wane? How do you describe a disease that's not always there?

There is a razor-thin line between trying to find something usefully redemptive in illness and lying to ourselves about the nature of suffering. Until we mourn what is lost in illness—and until we have a medical community that takes seriously the suffering of patients—we should not celebrate what is gained in it.

Only a few friends realized at the time how much physical suffering I was undergoing. We are bad at recognizing the suffering of others unless we are given clear-cut clues and evidence. And so invisible illnesses often go unacknowledged, while less serious conditions get attention.

To have pain is to have certainty; to hear about pain is to have doubt." The same was true of all my symptoms, none of which could be seen. In those months I was lonely in a way I never had been before. I could taste the solitude of the human body like brine in my mouth, a taste that never left me. •

I meant does it hurt when you hide every last shred of your individuality and self worth behind acres of silk and cups of powder and smiles that never, no matter how hard you try, reach your eyes?

You have punished me long enough, you have punished yourself long enough. Return to me. I beg.

A promise, a bond, a joy, a love for the ages, for the history books.…But what was love but pain?

It hurt because he knew she loved him; she had told him as much. It just-just not enough...

So this is pain. So this is wretchedness. So this is misery. I never knew. -Jack

There is nothing that makes the unbearable bearable.

This was part of love, to suffer. He'd planned to do it in silence, to experience the beautiful agony of the great romantics. Faced with it, however, beautiful agony was shit.

Chemical dependency destroys slowly but thoroughly

Todo eso era poco: la verdadera condena era no ser sumergido inmediatamente en las lagunas de sangre del séptimo círculo; era no sufrir los dardazos de los centauros cada vez que quisiera erguirse. La condena era ser joven y estar vivo, y no poder morir ni amar, en esas tierras de nadie.

There are times when—when being alone is a hurt that's worse than dying. When it's easier to die than to be alone. Aren't there?

He was vaguely aware that his hand was going to hurt like bloodygthat would be later.

If seeing her an hour before her last Weak cough into all blackness I could yet Be held by chalk-white walls - The Consumptive. Belsen 1945