Quotes About Struggle

This is what we are like. Collectively, as a species, this is our emotional landscape. I met an old lady once, almost one hundred years old, and she told me, There are only two questions that human beings have ever fought over, all through history. How much do you love me? And Who's in charge? Everything else is somehow manageable. But these two questions of love and control undo us all, trip us up and cause war, grief and suffering.

I thought about the relentless thought-processing, soul-devouring machine that is my brain, and wondered how on earth I was ever going to master it.

Ajalugu tunneb ainult kahte küsimust, mis inimesi võitlusse tõukab: Kui siiras on sinu armastus? Ja: Kelle käes on ohjad?. Kõige muuga saab kuidagimoodi hakkama.

the mind is restless, turbulent, strong and unyielding. I consider it as difficult to subdue as the wind.

We all know that fear is a desolate boneyard where our dreams go to desiccate in the hot sun.

double-pumpin' it when you have to inhale two desperate gasps of oxygen with every sob.

Lastly, she knew one other thing, and this was the most important realization of all: she knew that the world was plainly divided into those who fought an unrelenting battle to live, and those who surrendered and died. This was a simple fact. This

if your life has become a trash compactor, then you are allowed to try to escape that trash compactor, whatever it takes.

one of the reasons I was so free that year was because I was such a mess.

all the sorrow and trouble of this world is caused by unhappy people.

Alma learned that her father drank out of bottles in the evening, and that those bottles sometimes contained danger (raised voices; banishment), but could also contain miracles—such

Y si después de pasar por una época tan tenebrosa ves que queda un atisbo de felicidad en tu interior, no te queda más remedio que agarrar esa felicidad aunque acabes con la cara entera manchada de barro.

I believe that our creativity grows like sidewalk weeds out of the cracks between our pathologies—not from the pathologies themselves. But so many people think it's the other way around.

My husband was sleeping in the other room, in our bed. I equal parts loved him and could not stand him. I couldn't wake him to share in my distress-what would be the point?

We'd been fighting and crying, and we were weary in that way that only a couple whose marriage is collapsing can be weary. We had the eyes of refugees.

Sometimes I think that the difference between a tormented creative life and a tranquil creative life is nothing more than the difference between the word awful and the word interesting.

If you don't have a clear passion and somebody blithely tells you to go follow your passion, I think you have the right to give that person the middle finger. Because that's like somebody telling you that all you need in order to lose weight is to be thin, or all you need in order to have a great sex life is to be multiorgasmic: That doesn't help!

It's not fair for you to come here," I tell Depression. "I paid you off already. I served my time back in New York." But he just gives me that dark smile, settles into my favorite chair, puts his feet on my table and lights a cigar, filling the place with his awful smoke. Loneliness watches and sighs, then climbs into my bed and pulls the covers over himself, fully dressed, shoes and all. He's going to make me sleep with him again tonight, I just know it.

They come upon me all silent and menacing like Pinkerton Detectives, and they flank me—Depression on my left, Loneliness on my right.

Life, if you keep choosing it so hard, will drive you to death...allow contentment to come to you

Third, nobody ever really listens to anybody else's complaints, anyhow, because we're all too focused on our own holy struggle, so basically you're just talking to a brick wall.

There are only two questions that human beings have ever fought over, all through history. How much do you love me? And Who's in charge? Everything else is somehow manageable. But these two questions of love and control undo us all, trip us up and cause war, grief and suffering.

His penmanship was shamefully crabbed. Each sentence was a crowded village of capital letters and small letters, living side by side in tight misery, crawling up on one another as though trying to escape the page. His spelling was several degrees beyond arbitrary, and his punctuation brought reason to sigh with unhappiness.

Other people come here worshipping Eustace. They want to please him, so they let him take over their entire selves, and that's when the resentment starts to build. It builds slowly, over time. What wears people down here isn't the physical labor but the psychological stress of losing their identity.