Quotes About Unhappy

Unhappy is the land that breeds no hero! No, Andrea....unhappy is the land that needs a hero.

I don't want to turn into one of those pathetic creatures who are always homesick, always saying I wish I were still in Beirut. I don't want to become like you, split between here and there. I know I'm not happy here, but why should I be unhappy in two countries?

Nothing the desert produces expresses it better than the unhappy growth of the tree yuccas

If there are quarrels between the parents or if their marriage is unhappy, the ground will be prepared in their children for the severest predisposition to a disturbance of sexual development or to neurotic illness

It is that we are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love, never so helplessly unhappy as when we have lost our loved object or its love.

And if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate.

the great world, so far as we know it from philosophy of nature, is neither good nor bad, and is not concerned to make us happy or unhappy. All such philosophies spring from self-importance, and are best corrected by a little astronomy.

The serenity and the transcendence of self that you found are to me exemplary. You showed that it is not necessary to be unhappy, even while one is clear-eyed and undeluded about how terrible everything is. Somewhere you said that a writer — delicately you added: all persons — must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. (You were speaking of your blindness.)

Domestic strife is catching. Happy couples do well to avoid the company of the unhappy.

I hate requests. They make me feel unhappy. It's like when I take a book out of the library. As soon as I start to read it, all I can think about is when I'll finish it.

Believe, when you are most unhappy, that there is something for you to do in the world. So long as you can sweeten another's pain, life is not in vain.

Anyone unhappy with Google can use other search engines - including DuckDuckGo and Blekko, along with Bing or Yahoo.

A poet is an unhappy being whose heart it torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music... and then people crowd about the poet and say to him: "Sing for us soon again;" that is as much as to say. "May new sufferings torment your soul."

What marriage doesn't involve uncountable accretions, a language of gestures, a sense of recognition sharp as a toothache? Unhappy, sure. What couple isn't unhappy, at least part of the time? But how can the divorce rate be, as they say, skyrocketing? How miserable would you have to get to be able to bear the actual separation, to go off and live your life so utterly unrecognized?

Life for the unhappy is an endless search for 'the good parent,' one who will truly love him instead of making him afraid.

The way I see it, there are three reasons never to be unhappy. First, you were born. This in itself is a remarkable achievement.

They had much in common. Both were spoiled, driven, self-centred, quarrelsome, jealous, mistrustful and ever unhappy.

Until you, I didn't consider my past as an issue. Yes, it affected certain ways I did things, but everything had its place and I wasn't unhappy. In fact, I thought I had a comfortable and uncomplicated life. Oh boy. My nose wrinkled. Hello, Mr Comfortable. I'm Miss Complicated. His grin flashed. Never a dull moment.

People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick and couldn't sleep.

People were made of nothing but dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick and couldn't sleep

You are the consciousness of your unhappy family. Its bird sent flying through the purgatorial flame.

Whether or not I am a writer," I wrote, "I have—and this is both my curse and my virtue—cultivated the instinct of one, an aversion for the herd, without, in my unhappy case, the ability to harness and articulate that aversion.

Je suis une âme en peine, une femme de trente ans, nerveuse, malheureuse, qui n'a pas les dérivatifs des hommes: passades, voyages, affaire, vanité, ambition.

I was kind of an unhappy kid. I always felt like a cynical New Yorker trapped in a little kid's body. I started to get some pretty bad anxiety disorders around puberty, which totally did not work with growing up a mile away from the beach. I started cutting my own hair.