Quotes About Pain

Det vonde drep du ikkje med øks.

had to blink in pain. "What is

Sometimes it's as if I'm composed of nothing but symptoms of illness, I am a phantom built out of pain.

Anger always leaves a large void behind it, into which a flood of sorrow pours instantly, and keeps on flowing like a great river, without beginning or end.

And he who has once seen the world's borders will suffer his imprisonment most painfully of all.

I could feel the huge, unbearable burden of my own body.

Only a piece of machinery could possibly carry all the world's pain. Only a machine, simple, effective and just. But if everything were to happen mechanically, our prayers wouldn't be needed.

If something hurts me, I erase it from my mental map. Places where I stumbled, fell, where I was struck down, cut to the quick, where things were painful—such places are simply not there any longer. This means I've gotten rid of several big cities and one whole province. Maybe someday I'll eliminate a country.

It's a complete mystery that every challenge triggers vital forces within us. I really did feel better—only my left leg was still racked with pain, like an electric current, so I was walking on it stiffly, as if it were a prosthesis. But once I had to move the ladder, I stopped worrying about my Ailments. I forgot about the pain.

There's no hiding from this pain, there are no pills or injections for it. It must hurt, just as a river must flow and fire must burn. It spitefully reminds me that I consist of physical particles, which are slipping away by the second.

The good man suffers but to gain, And every virtue springs from pain; As aromatic plants bestow No spicy fragrance while they grow; But crush'd or trodden to the ground, Diffuse their balmy sweets around.

Mortifications are often more painful than real calamities.

She paints a pretty picture, but the story has a twist Her paintbrush is a razor, her canvas is her wrist. She paints a pretty picture in a colour that's blood red. While using her sharp paintbrush, she ends up finally dead. The pretty picture is fading quite slowly on her arm. Blood no longer runs through her, she can no longer do harm. Yes, she painted a pretty picture but the story has a twist, you see, her mind was her razor, and her heart was her wrist.

Let's not kid ourselves, pain always exists, and there's no shilly-shallying that it is probably the essential part of life.…

Il n'est pire exil que celui du coeur

Les guerres sont d'immenses machines à fabriquer des âmes errantes.

How much can we ever know about the love and pain in another heart? How much can we hope to understand those who have suffered deeper anguish, greater deprivation, and more crushing disappointments than we ourselves have known?

I want to know if you've touched the center of your own sorrow, if you've been opened by life's betrayals, or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

A wound not fully felt consumes from the inside. We must run very hard if we want to stay one step ahead of this pain. Exhausted, we try to bury it with drugs, alcohol, overwork, television, physical activity. We are a very creative species—we can use just about anything to anesthetize ourselves. But in doing so, we also remove ourselves from feeling the joy.

Io perfino nelle pause in cui piango suoi miei fallimenti, le mie delusioni, i miei strazi, concludo che soffrire sia da preferirsi al niente.

Sai la stessa paura che si prova all'inizio di un amore, quando l'intuito ci annuncia le sofferenze che esso ci costerà, e la prudenza ci induce a girarvi intorno senza accostarcisi troppo, ma è un girarvi a spirale, più vicino sempre più vicino, e sai bene che finirai per cadervi dentro: a pagare ogni istante di gioia con mille dolori.

La vita é una tale fatica, bambino. E una guerra che si ripete ogni giorno, e i suoi momenti di gioia sono parentesi brevi che si pagano un prezzo crudele.

Life is such an effort, Child. It's a war that is renewed each day, and its moments of joy are brief parentheses for which you pay a cruel price.

Niente ferisce, avvelena, ammala, quanto la delusione. Perché la delusione è un dolore che deriva sempre da una speranza svanita, una sconfitta che nasce sempre da una fiducia tradita cioè dal voltafaccia di qualcuno o qualcosa in cui credevamo