Quotes About Struggle

Et nous sommes en grant poverte, S'est riches de nostre deserte Chil pour qui nous nous traveillons. Des nuis grant partie veillons Et les jours tous, pour gaagnier, Qu'il nous manache a mehaigner Des membres quant nous reposons ; Et pour che reposer n'osons.

I have not spoken in three years: not since I left boot camp. It has been three years of a senseless war, and though the reasons for it are clear, and though we will continue to fight until we are ordered to stop--and probably for a while after that--none of us can remember the hate that led us here. We are simply fighting to survive the war. It is a strange place to be at fifteen, bereft of hope and very nearly of your humanity. But that is where I am nonetheless.

I think that most writers who are trying to write important and difficult books are in many ways putting their own humanity into question. Sometimes the journey is finding out where you stand in relationship to your own humanity and to the humanity of others.

Time was the only variable in every equation of power and oppression--how long before the pot boiled over.

In the old country my mother planted flowers in the face of my father's disdain. In every garden, in every house, no matter how long we lived there. I think it was the war, the Blitz in England, that took all the flowers. I think it was for the love she couldn't show him. I think it was for me. To show me that only the unspeakable remains.

Every day is a careful balance fought between the despondency that threatens to swamp me and the incredible joy of living.

Remember always that freedom, love, kindness, honour, justice and truth are never to be taken for granted--but worked at, struggled with and fought for, at whatever cost. For it is this that makes us human and builds a bridge to our true nature, which is spirit.

See you spend your whole life fighting with your father and no time on making your own life. What will you do when he dies? Fight yourself?

In that year, I came to question everything I had believed in before. The only thing I never gave up on was the conviction that there can be no concession in the face of tyranny and oppression.

I think that my art, my poetry, prose and music come from these cracks in my being, these ley lines where spirit is said to reside. I have come out of the horror of that experience having lost my faith in the inherent goodness of humanity, yet curiously appreciating even more the effort it takes to be good.

I spend my life hustling for small money, staying one step ahead of de police. But I will not do dat all my life. You see, I done read Napoleon Hill and as a thinking man, and with de grace of God, I go be millionaire before I reach thirty.

We are hunting the demons that haunt others. We get a smell and off we go. And you know why, Sunil? You know why we are so good at hunting the demons of others? Because we are so good, gifted even, at stalking and evading our own. But all demons hunters think that they are really heroes, and you know what all heroes need?

People say that losing weight is no walk in the park. When I hear that I think, yeah, that's the problem.

I am...sad and angry. Why is my spirit so sad and angry? I look back at my life and all I can remember is rage and rage and rage.

But as surely as the moon rises and the sun sets, depravity passes down through the ages, because there is always a gap between who we are and who we should be, and our parents, molested by regret, conceive us under the false hope that we will be better than them, and everything they do, every hug and blow, only makes certain that we never will be.

The knowledge of my depravity is the only thing that makes me special... that I have always always always known, and have never for a moment been able to forget, that there is something terribly wrong with me.

I worry that we all just sat around, after a while, trying to enjoy a ride that was never meant to be fun.

I am...sad and angry. I look back at my life and all I can remember is rage and rage and rage.

They had been quarrelling for as long as they had been in love.

The difference, she decided, was that now there was something to be done. Hell would be raised, and Oberon would come or not, but at least there would be no more idle tears. The night would end in joy or ruin, and somehow that was easier to abide than an endless, static grief.

What she had done over the past year had required an equivalent expenditure of energy to a year-long sprint, and when she thought of it that way it was obviously an unreasonable thing to do. Remaining sane--clinging and grasping at it, seeking to please a propriety constructed by people whose boyfriends had never killed themselves--was in fact the most insane thing she could have done, and anyone properly equipped by the right kind of experience would understand that.

She had spent the majority of her days in some sort of a tizzy and had developed over the course of her life a tizzy repertoire of abundant variety, from the black depressive tizzy to the anxious weepy tizzy to the more traditional furious tizzy, which almost always involved projectiles.

She might do what the mortals did, and strain to convince herself that the death of her Boy and the loss of her husband had happened for some reason, that some restitution would be made for her, that she would be paid for her suffering with a truer and more tolerable understanding of the world, but she didn't think she had the muscles for it.

Las dos proposiciones siguientes son ciertas: (a) Si tuviera la ocasión, Abbott no cambiaría ni uno de los elementos fundamentales de su vida, pero (b) Abbott no soporta su vida.