Quotes About Struggle

Tired and old, they kept on existing, against the grain, simply because they were too weak to die, because death could only come to them from the outside: strains of music alone can proudly carry their own death within themselves like an internal necessity: only they don't exist. Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness and dies by chance.

I am free: there is absolutely no more reason for living, all the ones I have tried have given way and I can't imagine any more of them.

Mein augenblickliches Leben ist nicht besonders glanzvoll, [...]

Beanie moved from cocaine to speedballing, the coke/heroin mix that livened up the heroin while bringing gravitas to an otherwise dipshit high like cocaine.

My left hand trembling cut the flesh of my calves to drain the fear from my walk

In the battle between the old brain and the neocortex, the old brain usually wins. We eat the cake.

Why bother inflicting enormous pain on yourself when sooner or later Life would certainly get around to doing it for you?

No big deal. We all have blood in us, the trick is keeping it inside.

It's always me, isn't it? I'm not really a very nice person, but for some reason it's always me that they come to with their problems.Oh, Dexter, a savage inhuman monster has taken my boyfriend! Well damn it, I'm a savage inhuman monster, too—didn't that entitle me to some rest?

I was never more alive than when the Dark Passenger was driving.

being torn apart by far too many loyalties that could not possibly live together in the same brain.

This was just no fun. I wanted my brain back.

A man can take only so much. Even a phony man like me.

What a terrible thing life can be.

Because no matter how far you may travel, you are what you are, and even when you are flying at thrilling new heights, circling the sun and thinking you belong in the halo of that perfect golden light, you do not. The wings always melt, and you always crash-land in your same old self.

Rita was almost as badly damaged as I am.

It didn't seem like Sergeant Doakes would give up before my conversion to a beer-bellied sofa ornament was complete, and I could see nothing else to do except play kick the can and hangman with Cody and Astor, performing outrageously theatrical good-bye kisses with Rita afterward for the benefit of my stalker.

What a frail thing a human being is—and without the Passenger, that is all I was, a poor imitation of a human being. Weak, soft, slow and stupid, unseeing, unhearing and unaware, helpless, hopeless, and harried.

Squared away, oh yes, a completely Harry idea of how life is lived, with hospital corners and polished shoes. And even then I knew; needing to kill something every now and then would pretty much sooner or later get in the way of being squared away.

There's lots of bad guys out there. I can't catch them all. To be truthful, she couldn't catch any of them unless they hurled themselves off a building and into the front seat of her car.

And so there we were, balanced on a knife edge that was unfortunately only metaphorical. Sooner or later, I had to be me. But until then I would see an awful lot of Rita. She couldn't hold a candle to my old flame, the Dark Passenger, but I did need my secret identity. And until I escaped Doakes, Rita was my cape, red tights, and utility belt—almost the entire costume.

I took a sip. The taste was bitter and thin, just as I would be if I had to keep the Dark Passenger buckled into his seat belt for very long.

Steady, Dexter, I thought. This is just a small, painful reminder of who you are and where you came from, brought on by stress. It has nothing to do with operatic cattle.

But she wasn't, and here she was again in the middle of a situation that called for fake smiles and bullshitting, two talents that were as alien to her as a Klingon mating dance.