Quotes About Struggle

My grandfather always said that living is like licking honey off a thorn.

The school of life offers some difficult courses, but it is in the difficult class that one learns the most.

There have been two great accidents in my life. One was the trolley, and the other was Diego. Diego was by far the worst.

Mine has been a life of much shame. I can't even guess myself what it must be to live the life of a human being.

The life of a journalist is poor, nasty, brutish, and short. So is his style

Thug Life hit me like the Holy ghost.

When you're drowning, you don't say 'I would be incredibly pleased if someone would have the foresight to notice me drowning and come and help me,' you just scream.

Freedom could take you farther from what you sought, not closer.

The pointlessness of that, the pressure of that, almost got to me again. The waste of it all.

Cultural indigestion, I tell you, the gripe in the bowels of your spirit.

The storm comes on and you toss your cigar, stand there thinking about the invisible border and all the ceaseless hypotheses that amount to some psychotic religion Ã¢â'¬Â¦ and you drink your wine, hell, get the whole bottle, and it's still not doing it, and you still don't want to go inside to face Ã¢â'¬Â¦ anything.

fighting the same savage battles with the giant rabbits for each other's carrion

E' così che la follia del mondo prova a impossessarti di te: penetrando dall'esterno, costringendoti a vivere nella sua realtà.

Progress':a word to choke on, a word to discard and then pick up again, hurl it in the oven like coal, watch it spurl out its own name in black smoke from the chimney of the hunting lodge. I embrace it, and I repeat it, and yet I know no word I or any other human could use will ever be the right word.

Desolation tries to colonize you.

In some unquantifiable way, too, you believe Lowry's approach is pushing the Southern Reach farther away from the answers. Like an astronaut headed into the oblivion of vast and empty space who, in flailing about, only speeds up the moment when he is beyond rescue.

Life is still hard, but it is fair, and there is more joy in it that doesn't feast on heartache.

Jonathan shuddered. There were birds in his head now, as if escaping from the empty feeders above their heads. Ghost birds. Fluttering around inside his skull, and he could not get them out. Yet still he went on, wanting to burst through the nettle and tall trees, find a copse and feel the sunlight on his face. It was getting colder and colder in the haunted mansion.

It was a feeling I often had when out in the wilderness: that things were not quite what they seemed, and I had to fight against the sensation because it could overwhelm my scientific objectivity.

You couldn't martyr yourself to Area X, you could only disappear trying, and not even be sure of that.

Writing, for me, is like trying to restart an engine that has rested for years, silent and rusting, in an empty lot—choked with water and dirt, infiltrated by ants and spiders and cockroaches. Vines and weeds shoved into it and sprouting out of it. A kind of coughing splutter, an eruption of leaves and dust, a voice that sounds a little like mine but is not the same as it was before;

There had never been a time when all the people everywhere lived in peace. No one had ever had a lasting peace without ignoring atrocity or history, which meant it wasn't lasting at all. Which meant we were an irrational species.

Perhaps there is no shame in this, perhaps I can bear this, fight this. To give in but not give up. And projected back out behind him, toward the sea, Saul unable to say the name, just three simple words that seemed so inadequate, and yet they were all he had left to use.

Here it came. There it was. How comfort led to overreach or to some half reveal of what should be hidden.