Quotes About Uncertainty

I feel I'm at the end of something — everything is going to be different — and terrible. That doesn't sound like you, you ride every wave. There is one that will drown me.

Was this strange mode of life to go on and on?

Waiting in fear is surely one of the most awful of human tribulations.

Sometimes one feels suddenly doomed by fate.

Was it unpleasant? I don't know, I said. Everything is so unpleasant nowadays it's hard to tell.

So, in a curious lurid calm which could not last and yet, it seemed, could not end, the days went by.

I just hope — if he does come — it won't be some sort of horror show.

Oh Irina, there's so much life for us. Is there? I feel I have no life. There's nothing in front of me but a black wall.

Mary did not believe in analysing herself, and she had left vague the notion that sometimes came to her that this anxious unfulfilled sort of loving was the only kind of which she was capable.

We did really love each other . . . didn't we? Didn't we? In the name of that reality — M.

I don't think she's had much of a life. Well, a life is a life. What does that mean? One never knows. I daresay most lives are rotten. It's only when one's young one expects otherwise.

You just seem to have folded up the future. It is folded up.

I had better spend the day quietly, sleep in the afternoon perhaps, and then start again hunting for Hugo. I would have much preferred to look for Anna. But I had no idea now where to start looking. Also I wanted to lay quickly to rest the terrible suspicion that where I found Hugo now I would also find Anna. This idea didn't bear thinking about and so I didn't think about it.

The lid has come off and whatever was inside it has certainly got out. Upon the demon-ridden pilgrimage of human life, what next I wonder?

There was a shadowy light, not exactly twilight, but an uncertain vivid yet hazy illumination, wherein people walked like spirits, bathed in light and not revealed.

My God, that bloody casket has fallen on the floor! Some people were hammering in the next flat and it fell off its bracket. The lid has come off and whatever was inside it has certainly got out. Upon the demon-ridden pilgrimage of human life, what next I wonder?

I can't see how anything can ever happen to us — I mean, I feel as if, if we leave this place, we shall crumble to pieces.

I'm afraid you're all mixed up in my mind,' I said. 'I wonder where they are now –' 'Married.' She spoke it as if it were the name of a distant country.

She was a part, an evidence, of some pure uncracked unfissured confidence in the good which was never there for me again.

But the tomorrow upon which I was to make my decision never, in the form in which I had envisaged it, arrived.

It's madness — Madness is where we live now.

I just don't know what's going to happen. All I know is that whatever it is it's got to happen. Next week.

She thought, perhaps I am simply mad. It will grow worse. That will be my life.

However life, unlike art, has an irritating way of bumping and limping on, undoing conversions, casting doubt on solutions, and generally illustrating the impossibility of living happily or virtuously ever after;