Quotes About Struggle

Jane smothered the glow and burn within her, ashamed of a passion for freedom that opposed her duty.

So the struggle for existence continued till I seemed to see all the world before me with its myriads of wild creatures preying upon one another; the spirit of nature, unquenchable as the fires of the sun, continuing ceaseless and imperturbable in its inscrutable design.

Some of these wall-eyed fellers who look jest as if they was walkin' in the shadow of Christ himself, right down the sunny road, now they can think of things en' do things that are really hell-bent.

Every day I awake believing—still believing. The day grows, and with it doubts, fears, and that black bat hate that bites hotter and hotter into my heart. Then comes night—

if she had just climbed a laborsome

Ages of rain had run down the slope, circling, eddying in depressions, wearing deep round holes. There had been dry seasons, accumulations of dust, wind-blown seeds, and cedars rose wonderfully out of solid rock. But these were not beautiful cedars. They were gnarled, twisted, into weird contortions, as if growth were torture, dead at the tops, shrunken, gray, and old. Theirs had been a bitter fight.

What an awful trail! Did you carry me up here? I did, surely, replied he.

But he clung to hope, to faith in life, to the victory of the virtuous, to the defeat of evil.

But that never was true. Glenn was as sane as I am, and, my dear, that's pretty sane, I'll have you remember. But he must have suffered some terrible blight to his spirit--some blunting of his soul.

Is it not the loss of things which makes life bitter?

wild men in wild places, fighting cold, heat, starvation, thirst, barrenness, facing the elements in all their ferocity, usually retrograded, descended to the savage, lost all heart and soul and became mere brutes.

Carley's edifice of hopes, dreams, aspirations, and struggles fell in ruins about her. It had been built upon false sands. It had no ideal for foundation. It had to fall.

fiindc? viaÈ›a al?turi de o femeie care aproape c? murise din dragoste e un joc în care îÈ›i eÈ™ti adversar È›ie însuÈ›i, È™i în nici un caz nu e un joc pe care-l joci în favoarea ta.

Pentru prima oar? îi trece prin minte c? È™i ea a fost înrobit? toÈ›i anii ??tia, înrobita unui tiran plin de cruzime, trecutului ei, care îÈ™i întinsese umbra lui cea lung? È™i plin? de am?r?ciune asupra întregii ei vieÈ›i.

O dor picioarele È™i trebuie s? se aÈ™eze, dar cafenelele ticsite o sperie, tot ce era pl?cut ziua a devenit amenin??tor noaptea, È™i ea coteÈ™te de pe strada principal? pe o strad? l?turalnic? È™i intr? într-una dintre curÈ›i, trebuie s? g?seasc? un ad?post, ea nu aparÈ›ine acestui loc, e înc?rcat? de jalea trecutului È™i de spaima de viitor, exact ca oraÈ™ul ei de baÈ™tin?.

But that I should have ended up in a place like this seems too custom-made a nightmare to be the work of mere ill fortune.

Depression, in Karla's experience, was a dull, inert thing - a toad that squatted wetly on your head until it finally gathered the energy to slither off. The unhappiness she had been living with for the last ten days was a quite different creature. It was frantic and aggressive. It had fists and fangs and hobnailed boots. It didn't sit, it assailed. It hurt her. In the mornings, it slapped her so hard in the face that she reeled as she walked to the bathroom.

This was a hard, unforgiving world. The only way to survive was to beat it at its own game.

It was the usual story of penniless young men, who think themselves obliged by their birth to choose a liberal profession and bury themselves in a sort of vain mediocrity, happy even when they escape starvation, notwithstanding their numerous degrees.

There is something about poverty that smells like death. Dead dreams dropping off the heart like leaves in a dry season and rotting around the feet; impulses smothered too long in the fetid air of underground caves. The soul lives in a sickly air. People can be slave-ships in shoes.

It was the meanest moment of eternity.

I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background........Beside the waters of the Hudson I feel my race. Among the thousand white persons, I am a dark rock surged upon, and overswept, but through it all, I remain myself. When covered by the waters, I am; and the ebb but reveals me again. How It Feels to Be Colored Me

Look lak she been livin' through uh hundred years in January without one day of spring.

And I can't die easy thinking maybe the menfolks white or black is making a spit cup out of you. Have some sympathy for me. Put me down easy, Janie, I'm a cracked plate.