Quotes About Suffering

Birds ate my face.

The martyrdom of me.

How I feel is cheap and used, dirty and humiliated. Dirty and tricked and thrown away.

Because I can't save anybody; not as a doctor, not as a son. And because I can't save anybody, I can't save myself.

You talked about Nietzsche and his tertiary syphilis. Mozart and his uremia. Paul Klee and the scleroderma that shrank his joints and muscles to death. Frida Kahlo and the spina bifida that covered her legs with bleeding sores. Lord Byron and his clubfoot. The Brontë sisters and their tuberculosis. Mark Rothko and his suicide. Flannery O'Connor and her lupus. Inspiration needs disease, injury, madness.

The precious gift of life must be preserved no matter now painful and pointless it seemed. Peace, I told them, is a gift so perfect that only God should grant it. I told people, only God's most selfish children would steal God's greatest gift, His only gift greater than life. The gift of death. This lesson is to the murderer, I said. This is to the suicide. This is to the abortionist. This is to the suffering and sick. Only God has the right to surprise His children with death.

Here in the bath­room with me are ra­zor blades. Here is io­dine to drink. Here are sleep­ing pills to swal­low. You have a choice. Live or die. Ev­ery breath is a choice. Ev­ery minute is a choice. To be or not to be.

Only after disaster can we be resurrected. It's only after you've lost everything," Tyler says, that you're free to do anything.

Every job too miserable most times, is nothing compared to just waiting.

La historia no es más que una sucesión de monstruos o de víctimas. O de testigos.

All these mystics, throughout history, all over the world, they all found their way to enlightenment by physical suffering.

This isn't such a beau­ti­ful world that he has to stay in it and suf­fer. This isn't much of a world at all.

For instance, if Jesus Christ had died in prison, with no one watching and with no one there to mourn or torture him, would we be saved? With all due respect. According to the agent, the biggest factor that makes you a saint is the amount of press coverage you get.

My biggest gripe is still hope. In hell, hope is a really really bad habit. Like smoking cigarettes or fingernail biting. Hope is something really tough and tenacious you have to give up. It's an addiction to break. Yes, I know the word tenacious. I'm 13 and disillusioned. And a little lonely.

There were jobs so bor­ing, you'd find ways to crip­ple your­self so you couldn't work.

Ten years ago, he was the hard­work­ing salt of the earth. All he want­ed was to go to Heav­en. Sit­ting here to­day, ev­ery­thing that he worked for in the world is lost. All his ex­ter­nal rules and con­trols are gone.

A headache, I get the kind of headache God would smote you with in the Old Testament.

We're all going overnight express delivery straight to Hell.

No, it's not fair, but what makes earth feel like Hell is our expectation that it should feel like Heaven. Earth is earth. Dead is dead. You'll find out for yourself soon enough.

Somewhere outside the hospital, in a motel room full of bloody towels with his tool box of knives and needles, or driving down the highway to his next victim, or kneeling over a dog, drugged and cut up in a dirty bathtub, is the man a million dogs must hate.

Because we love our pain. We love our drama. But we will never, ever admit that.

Our misery. This suppression of our rational mind is the source of inspiration. Suffering takes us out of our rational self-control and lets the divine channel through us.

because the rubber, too, is bulletproof. And so relentless is the wind that it rakes the street, pushing along this burden of crippled vermin, trundling this tide of suffering always in the wake of the Town Car as it reaches Spaulding Square. Fissures of lightning

Art never comes from happiness