Quotes About Struggle

But who knows why a man, though suffering, clings, above all the other well members, to the arm or leg which he knows must come off?

no man ever does that under the first fury of despair or remorse or bereavement he does it only when he has realised that even the despair or remorse or bereavement is not particularly important to the dark diceman

the three of us in that state where the very bones and muscles are too tired to rest, when the attenuated and invincible spirit has changed and shaped even hopelessness into the easy obliviousness of a worn garment

Beyond the bordering weeds a fence strangled in limp dilapidation, and from the weeds beside it the handles of a plow stood at a gaunt angle while its shard rusted peacefully in the undergrowth, and other implements rusted half concealed there - skeletons of labor healed over by the earth they were to have violated, kinder than they.

If ever was such a misfortunate man," pa says.

Ze sÅ'uchawkÄ… w rÄ™ce patrzyÅ' na drzwi, przez które wpadaÅ' ten bÅ'Ä™dny i dra?niÄ…cy powiew. ZaczÄ…Å' cytowa? coÅ› z jakiejÅ› dawno czytanej ksi??ki: "Spokoju coraz mniej! Spokoju coraz mniej!

The wagon wound and jolted between the slow and shifting yet constant walls from beyond and above which the wilderness watched them pass, less than inimical now and never to be inimical again since the buck still and forever leaped, the shaking gun-barrels coming constantly and forever steady at last, crashing, and still out of his instant of immortality the buck sprang, forever immortal

And then, life wasn't made to be easy on folks: they wouldn't ever have any reason to be good and die.

Meet Mrs. Bundren, he says.

Amid the pointing and the horror the clean flame.

It's like a man that's let everything slide all his life to get set on something that will make the most trouble for everybody he knows.

A]nd I realized then the unmitigable chasm between all life and all print–that those who can, do, those who cannot and suffer enough because they can't, write about it.

Listen: it's got to be all honeymoon, always. Either heaven, or hell: no comfortable safe peaceful purgatory between for you and me to wait in until good behavior or forbearance or shame or repentance overtakes us.

In my opinion it's a shame that there is so much work in the world. One of the saddest things is that the only thing that a man can do for eight hours a day, day after day, is work. You can't eat eight hours a day nor drink for eight hours a day nor make love for eight hours — all you can do for eight hours is work. Which is the reason why man makes himself and everybody else so miserable and unhappy.

They came on. I opened the gate and they stopped. turning. I was trying to say, and I caught her, trying to say, and she screamed and I was trying to say and trying and the bright shapes were going again. They were going up the hill to where it fell away and tried to cry. But when I breathed in, I couldn't breathe out again to cry, and I tried to keep from falling off the hill and I fell off the hill into the bright, whirling shapes.

El hombre realiza, engendra más de lo que puede o de lo que debería soportar. Así es como descubre que puede soportarlo todo

Su voz sonaba tan débil como una voz de muñeca, como sonaría cualquier voz de persona adulta que tuviese que hablar, no en contra de la opinión de sus oyentes, sino en contra de unas mentes llenas de ideas preconcebidas

Because there just aint nothing justifies the deliberate destruction of what a man has built with his own sweat and stored the fruit of his sweat into.

He fled, not from his past, but to escape his future. It took him twelve years to learn you cannot escape either of them.

Podría haber sido que mediante una conjunción planetaria todo el tiempo y la injusticia y el dolor se hicieran oír por un instante.

Father said a man is the sum of his misfortunes. One day you'd think misfortune would get tired, but then time is your misfortune Father said.

The lowly and invincible of the earth—to endure and endure and then endure, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

But that competitor was Death, and Roger Shumann lost.

It was not the hard work which he hated, nor the punishment and injustice. He was used to that before he ever saw either of them. He expected no less, and so he was neither outraged nor surprised. It was the woman: that soft kindness which he believed himself doomed to be forever victim of and which he hated worse than he did the hard and ruthless justice of men.