Quotes About Futility

Si la Historia tuviera una finalidad, que lamentable sería el destino de quienes no hemos hecho nada en la vida. Pero en medio del absurdo general, nos alzamos triunfadores, piltrafas ineficaces, canallas orgullosos de haber tenido razón.

But the rest of what I was doing is Ã¢â'¬Â¦ is like spinning. I sit in a room of thirty people I don't know, and I pedal faster and faster to keep pace, but when I'm done, I haven't moved an inch.

Confrontation was a great idea – unless the odds were so stacked against you that it was pointless.

Jane wanted to agree and to offer him the broken dwarf, perhaps for Constance's grave, as a kind of comment on the futility of earthly love, but instead she said gently, 'You must make Jessie happy. That will be the right thing for you now.

Anger was a waste of time and energy. Anger was useless."Anger" was the label given to the emotion that accomplished nothing.

All our efforts won't make water any wetter.

The futility of everything that comes to us from the media is the inescapable consequence of the absolute inability of that particular stage to remain silent. Music, commercial breaks, news flashes, adverts, news broadcasts, movies, presenters--there is no alternative but to fill the screen; otherwise there would be an irremediable void.

I have realized that there is no point making plans, because it'll never end; you're never going to win the world. I thought at one point in time I am going to do that, but you cannot. So I am just enjoying myself.

You say that you hope I will be recognized as the best novelist of my generation. I want you to know now and know completely that that would mean to me absolutely nothing.

You will have to get used to living without results and without hope. You will work for a while, you will be caught, you will confess, and then you will die. Those are the only results that you will ever see. There is no possibility that any perceptible change will happen within our own lifetime. We are the dead. Our only true life is in the future.

But the trouble is that conscious futility is something only for the young. One cannot go on despairing of life in to a ripe old age. One cannot go on being decadent, since decadence means falling and one can only said to be falling if one is going to reach the bottom reasonably soon. Sooner or later one is obliged to adopt a positive attitude toward life and society.

Each day they expend innumerable foot-pounds of energy—enough to plough thousands of acres, build miles of road, put up dozens of houses—in mere, useless walking.

You will have to get used to living without results and without hope. You will work for a while, you will be caught, you will confess, and then you will die. Those are the only results that you will ever see.

You will have to get used to living without results and without hope. You will work for a while, you will be caught, you will confess, and then you will die. Those are the only results you will ever see. There is no possibility that any perceptible change will happen within our lifetime. We are the dead. Our only true life is in the future. We shall take part in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone. But how far away that future may be, there is no knowing.

IT'S JUST ROUND THE CORNER ALL THE TIME, AND WE ALL KNOW IT'S THERE. STOP FIRING THAT MACHINE-GUN! STOP CHASING WHATEVER YOU'RE CHASING! CALM DOWN, GET YOUR BREATH BACK, LET A BIT OF PEACE SEEP IN YOUR BONES. NO USE. WE DON'T DO IT. JUST KEEP ON WITH THE SAME BLOODY FOOLERIES.

Sweetie, no one is coming. To see how good we have done/are doing. It is just us. Forever. Until a flood gets us or the air or food stops coming. What a joke, the way we live. The worry, the suspicion, the stress, the meanness. I keep dreaming that these dead are telling me what they would do if they could come back. What nobody has said so far: Rat out more folks and kick harder when asked.

War is never fatal but always lost. Always lost.

Sarah Harrell There is no use there is no use at all in smell, in taste, in teeth, in toast, in anything, there is no use at all and the respect is mutual.

I even get tired performing standup, which is normally a low-impact exercise in futility but looks hard the way I do it. That's why I take a lot of breaks, often stopping in the middle of a joke to catch my breath, or blame the crowd for not laughing before the punchline.

Don't you think you're just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic?

And when I don't feel it, it's pointless. Think about getting up it's pointless. Think about eating it's pointless. Think about dressing it's pointless. Think about speaking it's pointless. Think about dying only it's totally fucking pointless.

Burning in a hot tunnel of dismay, my humiliation complete as I shake without reason and stumble over words and have nothing to say about my 'illness' which anyway amounts only to knowing that there's no point in anything because I'm going to die.

Oh, but this,' I think I say, 'is perfect! This is all I have longed for! What are you gazing at? Do you suppose a girl is sitting here? That girl is lost! She has been drowned! She is lying, fathoms deep. Do you think she has arms and legs, with flesh and cloth upon them? Do you think she has hair? She has only bones, stripped white! She is as white as a page of paper! She is a book, from which the words have peeled and drifted--

They made her feel lonelier, suddenly, than she had ever felt before. She went creeping into her room and undressed without lighting a candle, then lay curled in bed in a ferment of misery. What was the use of her being alive? Her heart was some desiccated thing: a prune, a fossil, a piece of clinker. Her mouth might as well be filled with ashes. It was all utterly hopeless and futile . . .