Quotes About Struggle

Nancy: sisters are a shield against life's cruel adversity. Decca: sisters are life's cruel adversity. The Sisters: The Saga of the Mitford Family

Death is always terrible—no one need be ashamed to fear it. How we bear it depends much upon our constitutions. I have seen some brave men, who have smiled at the cruelest amputation, die trembling like children; while others, whose lives have been spent in avoidance of the least danger or trouble, have drawn to their last painful breath like heroes, striking at their foe to the last, robbing him of his victory, and making their death a triumph.

Nine years ago I had made my solemn promise before the old archbishop to love God and love my neighbors. Now the enormity of my vow overshadowed me. I didn't care for poverty or renunciation. Obedience rankled me most of all. But it was the commandment to love that held me in its grip.

I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous.

I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.

Satan has his companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him; but I am solitary and detested.

Although Reed tried valiantly, the income from print sales never balanced out the high cost of framing, advertising, printing announcements, and the rent on New York's prestigious gallery row, West Fifty-seventh Street. She confessed that the Delphic Studios were "a philanthropic endeavor rather than a business enterprise" and that, sadly, "sales were so infrequent as to make hope of any return at all from commissions a remote possibility.

You can't be brave if you've only had wonderful things happen to you.

If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them

Fix, by God's help, not only to root out this sin, but to set thyself to gain, by that same help, the opposite grace. If thou art tempted to be angry, try hard, by God's grace, to be very meek; if to be proud, seek to be very humble. E. B. PUSEY.

Without imagination, we merely see or hear, and even if we see or hear that the objects of the senses are beautiful, we cannot feel that they are so. The difference is this: in feeling the beauty of objects, we enjoy not only the common, shared pleasures of the senses, but also the private pleasures of the imagination, peculiar to ourselves, and such that we have to struggle to articulate them.

She didn't like his tone, his stance, his looks, or anything about him, for that matter. But there was nothing she could do about it, and no way to fight him. He was completely in charge.

That will solve nothing, my lord." His wife strode into the kitchen, stiff pride shining in her eyes. "I told you to keep her in hand." Brodick glared at his cousin, wondering just when his life had turned inside out. Druce scowled at the sweet smile Brodrick's wife cast toward him. He lifted his finger and pointed at her. "She bit me.

Women are degraded by the propensity to enjoy the present moment, and, at last, despise the freedom which they have not sufficient virtue to struggle to attain.

The agony of my feelings allowed me no respite no incident occurred from which my rage and misery could not extract its food.

Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.

I give myself sometimes admirable advice, but I am incapable of taking it.

By November, you wish you were dead. You want nothing more. Every day, every fucking day, you run up the steps of the house, breathing hard, swing open the cupboards, thinking: You pitiful little bitch. Fucking cow. Greedy pig. All day, your stomach pinches and spits up its bile. You sway when you walk. You begin to get cold again.

Madness strips you of memory and leaves you scrabbling around on the floor of your brain for the snatches and snippets of what happened, what was said, and when.

My bones are brittle, my heart weak and erratic, my esophagus and stomach riddled with ulcers, my reproductive system shot, my immune system useless... I'm not going to have a happy ending.

You begin to forget what it means to live. You forget things. You forget that you used to feel all right. You forget what it means to feel all right because you feel like shit all of the time, and you can´t remember what it was like before.

Something had been confirmed: I was worth giving a shit about; I was getting to be a successful sick person. Sick is when they say something. Of course, I had been sick for five years. But now, now maybe I was really sick. Maybe I wasgetting good at this, good enough to scare people. Maybe I would almost die, and balance just there, at the edge of the cliff, wavering while they gasped and clutched one another's arms, and win acclaim for my death-defying stunts.

Because I'm not, in fact, depressed, Prozac makes me manic and numb - one of the reasons I slice my arm in the first place is that I'm coked to the gills on something utterly wrong for what I have.

I have not lost my fascination with death. I have not become a noticeably less intense person. I have not, nor will I ever, completely lose the longing for that something, that thing that I believe will fill an emptiness inside me. I do believe that the emptiness was made greater by the things that I did to myself.