Quotes About Discomfort

Art has an obligation to offend

The purpose of art actually is, in many cases, to make you feel quite uncomfortable. Or at least to go to that place that's already of discomfort inside of you and tap into that.

I have been and continue to be committed to art as a tool to ignite, comfort, and discomfort.

It's hard to make changes. Things get so comfortable and you don't want to move. Maybe it would do you good to be a little uncomfortable for a while, and do something different...

Gilbert put down the magazine he was looking at and politely said he hoped I was recovering from my injury. I said I was. I've never been hurt, really hurt, he went on, that I can remember. I've tried hurting myself, of course, but that's not the same thing. It just made me uncomfortable and irritable and sweat a lot. That's pretty much the same thing, I said.

Why don't you lift the end?" said Alf. "It's me back, Alf," complained Mack. "You know how it troubles me." "No more than mine troubles me," said Alf. "But I said it first," said Mack.

Horkman made a sound like a bullfrog trying to give a blow job to a buffalo.

She backed away, looking at him, his shirt hiked up, his crotch exposed. She could think only of a campfire, one small log, all of it doused in milk.

Our penises flop up and down, and then as we pick up speed, slap left to right, back and forth -- who would have thought left to right? The pain! People should not do this. Penises were not built for running.

In many instances, however, I would expect such instances of discomfort to draw our attention to the ways in which we have drunk deep from Babylon's cup and are tempted to remain in our stupor.

I'm gonna be sick," Burt moaned. "I'm gonna be sick!

Your feelings do not determine your worth, simply your relative state of comfort or discomfort.

the bathroom. Really, Mr. Colville

I hate unsolicited wetness.

Everything gets horrible. Everything you see gets ugly. Lurid is the word. Doctor Garton said lurid, one time. That's the right word for it. And everything sounds harsh, spiny and harsh sounding, like every sound you hear all of a sudden has teeth. And smelling like I smell bad even after I just got out of the shower. It's like what's the point of washing if everything smells like I need another shower

I submit that the real reason we criticized and disliked Lynch's Laura's muddy bothness is that it required of us an empathetic confrontation with the exact same muddy bothness in ourselves and our intimates that makes the real world of moral selves so tense and uncomfortable, a bothness we go to the movies to get a couple hours' fucking relief from.

He cranks the condo's AC way down at night and still most mornings wakes up soaked, fetally curled, entombed in that kind of psychic darkness where you're dreading whatever you think of.

Two dry mouths bumping at each other, trying to kiss, his self-conscious thoughts twisting around on themselves like a snake on a stick while he bucked and snorted dryly above her, his swollen eyes red and his face sagging so that its slack folds maybe touched, limply, the folds of her own loose sagging face as it sloshed back and forth on his pillow, its mouth working dryly. The thought was repellent.

extremely sensitive: carsick, airsick, heightsick; my sister likes to say I'm lifesick)

As whence the sun 'gins his reflection Shipwracking storms and direful thunders break, so from that spring whence comfort seemed to come discomfort swells.

I fell onto the bed and lay gazing at the ceiling, nearly immobilized and in a trance of supreme discomfort. Rational thought was usually absent from my mind at such times, hence trance. I can think of no more apposite word for this state of being, a condition of helpless stupor in which cognition was replaced by that "positive and active anguish." And one of the most unendurable aspects of such an interlude was the inability to sleep.

It may be more accurate to say that despair, owing to some evil trick played upon the sick brain by the inhabiting psyche, comes to resemble the diabolical discomfort of being imprisoned in a fiercely overheated room. And because no breeze stirs this caldron, because there is no escape from this smothering confinement, it is entirely natural that the victim begins to think ceaselessly of oblivion.

Byla to veliká odbornice na ?ekání, mírná, pasivní, nesmÄ›lá, a proto ji ?asto bolely zuby, neboÃ…Â¥ se skvÄ›le hodila do ?ekárny u zubaÃ…â"¢e a její zuby o tom vÄ›dÄ›ly.

A world I will never feel comfortable in, never understand, and never approve of or forgive.