Quotes About Struggle

Some people say we are on the verge of the second Civil War. And it may be so. But even on the darkest days, cheerfulness kept breaking in.

The clock strikes one that just struck two – Some schism in the sum; A sorcerer from Genesis Has wrecked the pendulum.

Time more than flies. It tramples. It loots. It mugs.

It's only Tuesday and I'm already 95% done with this week.

But of all the aspects of social misery nothing is so heart-breaking as unemployment...

Virtue, as understood by the world, is a constant struggle against the laws of nature.

We are double-edged blades, and every time we whet our virtue the return stroke straps our vice.

There has been war since the beginning of time and we are no smarter than the people that have gone before us. There is apt to be some more war.

Peace has its victories no less than war, but it doesn't have as many monuments t' unveil.

Peace is the short interval when nations toil to pay the costs of past and future wars.

This world is not a Sunday School; it is a slaughter-house, and always has been. Peace or war, what does it matter? There is no such thing as peace, and never can be. Competition is just peaceful war with far more cruel weapons than either shot or shell. War is competition stripped of all disguise — without the velvet glove.

You can't say that civilization don't advance, however, for in every war they kill you in a new way.

I always think of my sins when I weed. They grow apace in the same way and are harder still to get rid of.

Crabgrass can grow on bowling balls in airless rooms, and there is no known way to kill it that does not involve nuclear weapons. Oh, I know you've seen advertisements for lawn products that are supposed to kill crabgrass, but don't believe them. Crabgrass thrives on these products.

Upon my lawn, I know not why, the dandelions thrive; the grass may all curl up and die, but they'll remain alive. I've tried about a million plans, to have the vile things slain; and all the schemes were also-rans, and all my efforts vain.

Winter is a lean, scrappy fighter. Spring blossoms from the sweat of Winter's brow.

Worry whomps and wails on weary souls.

Most editors are failed writers — but so are most writers.

The traditional sacrifices of a writer are soul and sleep.

Writer's block is a disease for which there is no cure, only respite.

No sooner do I get interested than bang! goes my sleep, and I have to stop a week or ten days, during which my ideas get all cold again.

My only cure for writer's block is insomnia.

If I'm trying to sleep, the ideas won't stop. If I'm trying to write, there appears a barren nothingness.

Ink and paper are sometimes passionate lovers, oftentimes brother and sister, and occasionally mortal enemies.