Quotes About Pain

It was the sheer variety of the pain that stopped me from crying out. It came from so many places, spoke so many languages, wore so many dazzling varieties of ethnic costume, that for a full fifteen seconds I could only hang my jaw in amazement.

I appear at times merry and in good heart, talk, too, before others quite reasonably, and it looks as if I felt, too, God knows how well within my skin. Yet the soul maintains its deathly sleep and the heart bleeds from a thousand wounds.

The soul maintains it's deathly sleep and the heart bleeds from a thousand wounds

Flesh, bodies, nerves, legs… things were getting all mixed up in his mind. It seemed to be filled with flesh, cloyed with the sweetish smell of flesh that is torn open and over which blood is pouring. It was his flesh, their flesh, lying about still alive, but dying, dying so slowly, dying so fast…

Adam ate the apple, and our teeth still ache.

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

Through pain comes wisdom. I endured a lot of pain.

How we choose to deal with pain is ultimately the measure of who we are and of the success we have in closing our gaps.

Rain, after all is only rain; it is not bad weather. So also, pain is only pain; unless we resist it, then it becomes torment.

Even if one turns away from harmony for just one night, suffering ensues.

am forever reminded of the eight unavoidable sufferings: birth, old age, pain, one's own death, the death of a loved one, evil people, frustrated desire and lust.

Exile. It is not simply being homeless. Rather, it is knowing that you do have a home, but that your home has been taken over by enemies. Exile. It is not being without roots. On the contrary, it is having deep roots which have now been plucked up, and there you are, with roots dangling, writhing in pain, exposed to a cold and jeering world, longing to be restored to native and nurturing soil. Exile is knowing precisely where you belong, but knowing that you can't go back, not yet.

drunk enough on earth's liquors to relish the prospect of the knife.

I looked across to his picture on the wall, the one that showed him with a pained look on this face, with a bleeding heart painted on his chest. I knew exactly how he felt.

MARÍA. ¡Ay, quién pudiera darte la tranquilidad que tienen los lagos dormidos...! JESÚS. ¡Madre, si yo fuera lago lloverían constantemente piedras sobre mi superficie! ¡Estoy hecho para el dolor!

Loss bites and pulls. It is a thing of hooks sunk into every part of you, parts that you would not think could feel loss like thumbs and lips, hooks moored to wind and memory so that slightest disturbance, the slightest act of recall, tugs at those fine lines. Red is the colour of loss and its smell is like burned roses.

looming over them, the shadow of the Ministry of Pain and the great black cube called West One that was its semilegendary Department of Psychosocial Rehabilitation. West One, where the PainCriminals went … and came out as someone else.

You know, Benji, I am definitely experiencing severe distress.

Tell me this, then, what are you giving them that the Compassionate Society cannot? Questions? Doubt? Uncertainty? Criticism, cynicism, sneering cheap laughs? Hurt? Pain?

Was he some test from the Ministry of Pain? Some awful assessment, and if so, had she passed or failed?

Hunger. The first word he had spoken as BeeJee &ersenn knelt beside him on the streaming cobbles. He had rubbed his hands across his belly and said, "Why do I feel this?" Such an incredible question.

She had never really known why the Ministry of Pain called its aerial slouch-craft "pantycars." Maybe in certain lights, from certain angles, they did look like jet-propelled underwear.

On each twinkling scrap of paper Courtney Hall had drawn what she had glimpsed in that instant of the things that lay beyond the wall, the things the Compassionate Society had pushed away and abandoned and forgotten, the old things, the things of wonder and terror and joy and pain.

Y al final se queda dormido porque la espera es un dolor sordo y continuo, como un acúfeno del alma.