Quotes About Struggle

Yes. Because they were human men. They were trying to write down the heart's truth out of the heart's driving complexity, for all the complex and troubled hearts which would beat after them.

She forced herself once more to think of nothing, to keep her consciousness immersed, as a little dog that one keeps under water until he has stopped struggling

TRINA: I'm tired of all the happy men who rule the world. Their smile, their smile's their pedigree. They smile, but not for me. I'd like the chance to hide In their world. I'm happy, but I'm not at ease with that whole world.

His WIFE, understanding everything, wants him to stay. MARVIN wants to go. Or MARVIN wants to stay. She wants him to go. Anyway, he's going.)

We were mining a rich lode of bliss. But disaster never felt far away.

The painters could be identified by dirty fingernails; the writers by conversation in labored monosyllables and aggressive vulgarities which disguised their minds.

In this world, God must serve the Devil.

Problem what happened he always woke up the same person went to bed the night before only way he knew it these God damned words going through his head, go to bed knew he'd wake up the same God damned person finally couldn't take it anymore, same God damned words waiting for him only thing to do get rid of the God damned container for the thing contained, God damned words come around next morning God damned container smashed on the sidewalk no place for them to . . .

The most difficult challenge to the ideal is its transformation into reality, and few ideals survive.

Women get desperate, but they don't understand despair.

If we believe that love is weakness? And people resent it, because they think it's an admission of weakness, they draw away from it… and that's why you kill the thing you love, because it's your weakness personified. If you kill it, you will your weakness before it kills you.

I guess we all know somebody like him, talk him out of suicide till the day one of you finally dies in bed like talking to yourself most of the time . . .

What is it they want from a man that they didn't get from his work? What do they expect? What is there left of him when he's done his work? What's any artist, but the dregs of his work? the human shambles that follows it around. What's left of the man when the work's done but a shambles of apology.

It's just, sometimes it's just too God damned long to be able to keep believing something's real...

And finally the gray yielded to dark, the clock made another try at striking the hour, missed, waited, tried again unheard, again, until the alarm stung the silence into another sunless day

Order is simply a thin, perilous condition we try to impose on the basic reality of chaos.

Times is always hard for some, the old man observed.

Case fell into the prison of his own flesh.

I did not come to this country for the terror from paramilitary, declared Voytek, hoarsely. I did not come to this country for motherfucker . But motherfucker is waiting. Always . Is carceral state, surveillance state. Orwell. You have read Orwell?

Whenever the media do try to pick it up, it slides like a lone noodle from their chopsticks.

I knew he used women as counters in a game, Bobby Quine versus time and the night of cities. And Rikki had turned up just when he needed something to get him going, something to aim for. So he'd set her up as a symbol for everything he wanted and couldn't have, everything he'd had and couldn't keep.

The bosses, the big'uns, they can take all manner of things away from us. With their bloody laws and factories and courts and banks...they can make the world to their pleasure, they can take away your home and kin and even the work you do. But they can't ever take what you know, now can they, Sybil? They can't ever take that.

Those fuckers," Janice said, meaning the football players, "they get me doing hate Kegels.

The zipper hung, caught, as he opened the French fatigues, the coils of toothed nylon clotted with salt. He broke it, some tiny metal parts shooting off against the wall of salt-rotten cloth gave, then was in her, effecting the transmission of the old message. Here, even here, in a place he knew for what it was, a coded model of some stranger's memory, the drive held.