Quotes About Suffering

She thought, I shall never tell it to Jack, the strange love which I feel for this doomed man, as if he were a dog lying in the road with a broken back.

Deep, deepest inside his wounded heart. he felt the new pain, the pain which would now travel with him always.

But I've had such a rotten life. People like me are a problem .

Yet the love is there, the love is there — only it's as if it's so wounded it has curled up and gone into a black hole.

I tasted injustice and the special horror of seeing its perpetrators flourish. How frequent and how bitter is this aspect of human wretchedness. The wicked prosper in front of our eyes and go on and on and on prospering. What a blessing it must have been once to be able to believe in hell. A great and deep human consolation was lost to us when that ancient and respectable belief faded from our minds.

Those were the tortures of the night. The tortures of the day consisted in pretending to eat, pretending to play, pretending to be happy, passing the hours, enduring the sympathetic looks and the loving remarks.

Louise was a jewel locked away; and after the first 'if only' period had passed and Clement had got used to 'Mrs Anderson', he felt that his love for her had not faded, but had suffered a sea change into something special and unique, causing a special and unique and much valued, pain.

Mary held her heart, contracted into a point of agony.

She felt above all, as a sort of categorical imperative, the desire to set Hannah free, to smash up all her eerie magical surroundings, to let the fresh air in at last; even if the result should be some dreadful suffering.

Sometimes he felt like a victim constantly revived in order to suffer more.

But her heart was hurting her with its violence.

You said you were having fun. Well, yes and no, strictly speaking I was in hell. Perhaps I have always been there. One can have fun in hell.

Ordinary consciousness simply becomes pain.

Was it here, after all, that everything broke down and descended into a roaring shaft of shattered masks and crumpled rose petals and bloody feathers?

I have been struck down before my life begins. I have already died in the war.

These young people have got to suffer, we can't save them from it —

He thought, this is hell, not being able to live with oneself.

Priscilla is in hell. Well, we all are. Life is torture, consciousness is torture. All our little devices are just morphia to stop us from screaming . . . We're each of us screaming away in our own private padded cell.

Little pictures out of hell.

He was conscious of his body as a heavy cold horrible container. He had the feeling, coming to him as the memory of a dream, of being a prisoner waiting to be tortured. The extremity of pain was yet to come. And even now he was denied to comfort of self-pitying misery and warm tears.

Life is horrible, horrible, horrible, said the philosopher.

High cunts are a big fuckin drag when yir feeling like this, because thir too busy enjoying their high tae notice or gie a fuck about your suffering. Whereas the piss-held in the pub wants every cunt tae git as ootay it as he is, the real junky (as opposed tae the casual user who wants a partner-in-crime) doesnae gie a fuck aboot anybody else.

Il dolore è una cosa da concentrarcisi sopra.

Thir must be less tae life than this. More pain, then more sleep/pain.