Quotes About Melancholy

Hüzün does not just paralyze the inhabitants of Instanbul, it also gives them poetic license to be paralyzed.

For the traveler we see leaning on his neighbor is an honest and well-meaning man and full of melancholy, like those Chekhov characters so laden with virtues that they never know success in life.

For me it has always been a city of ruins and of end-of-empire melancholy. I've spent my life either battling with this melancholy or (like all ?stanbullus) making it my own.

Maybe you've understood by now that for men like myself, that is, melancholy men for whom love, agony, happiness and misery are just excuses for maintaining eternal loneliness, life offers neither great joy nor great sadness.

We might call this confused, hazy state melancholy, or perhaps we should call it by its Turkish name, hüzün, which denotes a melancholy that is communal rather than private.

Hanya orang yang sangat pintar dan sangat tidak bahagia bisa menulis puisi yang bagus.

the hüzün the boy has carried with him since birth will lead the story into melodrama.

These sights spoke of a strange and powerful loneliness.

The Istanbul in which they lived was a city littered with the ruins of the great fall, but it was their city. If they gave themselves to melancholic poems about loss and destruction, they would, if discovered, find a voice all their own.

If you know how to swim and manage to find your way up to the surface, you'll notice that for all it's melancholy, the Bosphorus is very beautiful, no less than life.

I had melancholy thoughts . . . a strangeness in my mind, A feeling that I was not for that hour, Nor for that place. —William Wordsworth, The Prelude

Music makes one feel so romantic - at least it always gets on one's nerves - which is the same thing nowadays.

Music is the art which is most nigh to tears and memories.

The world has become sad because a puppet was once melancholy. The nihilist, that strange martyr who has no faith, who goes to the stake without enthusiasm, and dies for what he does not believe in, is a purely literary product. He was invented by Turgenev, and completed by Dostoevsky. Robespierre came out of the pages of Rousseau as surely as the People's Palace rose out debris of a novel. Literature always anticipates life. It does not copy it, but moulds it to its purpose.

The crimes of the moonlight melonmounter followed him as crimes will.

10. If the reader would know, how these good people fared the rest of the melancholy winter, let him know, that besides the exercises of Religion, with other work enough, there was the care of the sick to take up no little part of their time. 'Twas a most heavy trial of their patience, whereto they were called the first winter of this their pilgrimage, and enough to convince them and remind them that they were but Pilgrims.

I actually liked the disolation of winter; it was the season when it was okay to be unhappy. If I were to ever kill myself, I thought it would be in the summer.

Both the lyrics and melody were straightforward, and though I wasn't knowledgeable about what was going on with his guitar, the other instruments, or the backup vocals, the song was pleasurable to listen to at the same time that it was devastatingly sad. Was Noah Brewster himself sad? With that hair and those big white teeth?

How terrible it was that it should be spring, and everything cold-hearted, cold-hearted.

From the old wood came an ancient melancholy, somehow soothing to her, better than the harsh insentience of the outer world. She liked the inwardness of the remnant of forest, the unspeaking reticence of the old trees. They seemed a very power of silence, and yet a vital presence. They, too, were waiting: obstinately, stoically waiting, and giving off a potency of silence.

Zinnia always wants to hug me and pat me because she has a boy my same age named Melvin. I said maybe some day Melvin could come play at our farm, and I could bring him to the maze and show him the shortcuts. Zinnia started crying. That's when I seen that she has freckles.

He sat down on one of the pilings looking sick and sad and I knew he was thinking about Ma and the baby. I wanted badly to cheer him up but singing commercials seemed the wrong thing to do.

O past! O happy life! O songs of joy! In the air, in the woods, over fields, Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved! But my mate no more, no more with me! We two together no more. -from Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking

The tones of unseen mystery, the vague and vast suggestions of the briny world, the liquid-flowing syllables, The perfume, the faint creaking of the cordage, the melancholy rhythm, The boundless vista and the horizon far and dim are all here, And this is ocean's poem.