Quotes About Struggle

She was a good witch and a decent person, but decent people aren't always easy to live with.

I can never really enjoy being famous.

That even in the dark times there are bright moments, and that the darker the times are the brighter those moments seem.

I want to hug him, to hold him, but I also want to slap him until he can see that, objectively, his life is almost perfect. The world loves him; it takes him seriously; Harvard takes him seriously.

No one has called me. They all think I'm toxic or damaged, or both. I cannot stop crying so Dad holds me while Mom stands in the doorway with her half-open mouth and palms against her chest. Dad rocks me and whispers to me. He sings a little song in my ear as he dries my naked body with a towel while Mom stands in the doorway. He carries me to my bed, rests me head on his knees and lets my tears and snot soak dark spots into his white trousers.

On the bad days, there is no color. I know there are colors. I can see the colors, but the world looks gray.

Strika is pulling down his short and showing that he is man to this woman while I am holding her one leg and another soldier is holding the other. She is screaming, DEVIL BLESS YOU! DEVIL BORN YOU! But it is not Devil that is borning me. I am having father and mother and I am coming from them.

I was feeling like somebody is coming to take everything that I like and just make me to sad.

This is supposed to be my season to carve my own space if I play my cards right[...] Do I want it? I want so many things, so many competing things. I want to run to win, to run away from myself, to run away from home.

Other days when he has come from or doesn't want to go to a shift at work, he is wild, sucking away everything I thought I knew about the way I'm supposed to be in this world. I feel like a star caught in the gravitational pull of a black hole, unraveling, spinning under the control of some unseen force, torn into streams of fire forever spiraling, never to be put together again.

People should know when they are conquered, OJ used to say when he would pin me to the floor and tickle me until I couldn't tell whether I was laughing or crying. There is nothing you can do, give it up, it's easier that way, OJ would say. You can't win, so just let go, he said once when I said I wanted to punch my father in the face.

I am fearing because I am seeing that the only way not to be fighting is to die. I am not wanting to die.

On the bad days, there is no color. I know there are colors. I can see the colors, but the world looks gray. The sounds are muffled by a crackling web of static that sits behind my eyes and buzzes in my ears.

I am remembering the soldier who are coming to my village and I am holding my machete closer. I am liking how it is feeling in my hand, like it is almost part of my body.

I'm walking walking walking to where the sun is setting. I'm looking at it and wanting to catch it in my hand and to be squeezing until color are dripping out from it forever. That way everywhere it is always dark and nobody is ever having to see any of the terrible thing that is happening in this world.

I'm still me, I want to say to him, your son, but that would hardly help if I am currently everything wrong with the world.

Life is hard enough to be easy

There are times when we must sink to the bottom of our misery to understand truth, just as we must descend to the bottom of a well to see the stars in broad daylight.

At the beginning he saw that the gentry class to which he belonged was prolific in 'superfluous' or unnecessary men who did not pull their weight and he was later to conclude that their character, like his own, contained a continuous struggle between Hamlet's scepticism and Don Quixote's chivalrous and reckless idealism.

How could people like these, without words to put to their emotions and passions, manage? They could, at best, only suffer dumbly. Their pains and humiliations would work themselves out in their characters alone: like evil spirits possessing a body, so that the body itself might appear innocent of what it did.

Indeed, one could go so far as to say that humor helps as an effective antidote against a useless struggle against the ultimate danger: the ever-present fear of death in self-conscious beings like us.

A liberation movement is doomed once it stops to haggle over nuances of good and evil.

The exercise of power is determined by thousands of interactions between the world of the powerful and that of the powerless, all the more so because these worlds are never divided by a sharp line: everyone has a small part of himself in both.

Returning to life was not easy, for joy had to find its long unused paths again.