Quotes About Struggle

the uproar of radios, traffic noises, the signs and people lulled him. They blotted out his inner worries.

Pris had now cut three legs from the spider, which crept about miserably on the kitchen table, seeking a way out, a path to freedom. It found none.

In a 1981 interview with Gregg Rickman, Dick describes a nature documentary he viewed in the 1960s in which a female Galápagos turtle crawled the wrong direction after laying her eggs in the sand and began to die from exposure while still moving her limbs. That night Dick heard a voice tell him that the turtle believed that she had made it back to the ocean, adding, "And she shall see the sea.

Her life won't differ much when her cancer returns," Maurice said finally. "Does she talk about her cancer?" "Yes." "To clerks in stores? Everyone she meets?" "Yes." "Okay, her life will differ; she'll get more sympathy. She'll be better off.

But a mood like that, Rick said, you're apt to stay in it, not dial your way out. Despair like that, about total reality, is self-perpetuating.

Mercer doesn't have to do anything alien to him. He suffers but at least he isn't required to violate his own identity.

Are we to assist it in gaining power, in order to save our lives? Is that the paradox of our earthly situation?

Things happen fast, during the time of transition in a totalitarian society.

Jack thought, And people talk about mental illness as an escape! He shuddered. It was no escape; it was a narrowing, a contracting of life into, at last, a moldering, dank tomb, a place where nothing came or went; a place of total death.

Maybe there's a machine in Berkeley that will save me, too. Perhaps my problems can be automated out of existence.

This rehearsal will end, the performance will end, the singers will die, eventually the last score of music will be destroyed in one wya or another; finally the name Mozart will vanish, the dust will have won. If not on this planet then another. We can evade it awhile.

El mal es un elemento consustanciado con el mundo, se dijo el señor Tagomi. Se derrama sobre nuestra cabeza, entra en nuestro cuerpo, nuestra mente, nuestro corazón, hasta en las piedras de la calle.

Are?you dying? she asked. Just can't breathe. This air. Poor, poor?good lord. I've forgotten your name. Hell of a thing. Barney! He clutched her. No! Don't stop! She arched her back. Her teeth chattered. I wasn't going to, he said. Oooaugh! He laughed. Don't please laugh at me. Not meant unkindly. A long silence, then. Then, Oof.

What he did not know then is that it is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane. To listen to Gloria rationally ask to die was to inhale the contagion. It was a Chinese finger trap, where the harder you pull to get out, the tighter the trap gets.

I almost passed the IQ test," he said in a low, shaky voice.

I used to condemn junkies, like they could get off the stuff if they really wanted to, and that is just as stupid as saying, You could grow eyes in the back of your head if you really wanted to.

He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.

Because when the death-dealing powers of ice and cold reach your loins, your breasts and hips and buttocks as well as your heart—it was already deep in her heart, surely—then there will be no more woman. And you won't survive that. No matter what I or any man chooses to do.

You will be required to do wrong no matter where you go. It is the basic condition of life, to be required to violate your own identity. At some time, every creature which lives must do so. It is the ultimate shadow, the defeat of creation; this is the curse at work, the curse that feeds on all life.

Always this barrier, this impossibility of getting through. This time he did not waste his time trying; he simply went on stroking her, thinking, It'll be on my conscience, whatever happens to her. And she knows it, too. So she's absolved of the burden of responsibility, and that, for her, is the worst thing possible. Too bad, he thought, I wasn't able to make love to her.

O universo te dá corda, deixa você se debater à vontade, e depois puxa para você se enforcar.

Nós dois caímos na gargalhada. Quando você está quase louco de dor, você ri do que puder.

Only death can get us out of this and maybe not even death. Maybe it's too late; we'll carry this deterioration with us to the next life.

One of these days, people like me will rise up and overthrow you, and the end of tyranny by the homeostatic machine will have arrived. The day of human values and compassion and simple warmth will return, and when that happens someone like myself who has gone through an ordeal and who genuinely needs hot coffee to pick him up and keep him functioning when he has to function will get the hot coffee whether he happens to have a poscred readily available or not.