Quotes About Melancholy

There were happy days, with watermelon, and sad days of whiskey.

The company of fools may first make us smile, but in the end we always feel melancholy.

If work and leisure are soon to be subordinated to this one utopian principle - absolute busyness - then utopia and melancholy will come to coincide: an age without conflict will dawn, perpetually busy - and without consciousness.

I find 'EastEnders' so utterly bleak.

One thing protects us from change: exile. In unreality or at the other end of the world, in melancholy or the South, exile is a marvellous and comfortable structure. Only the exiled have a land. I know some people who are only close to their country when they are 10,000 kilometres away, driven out by their own brothers. The others are nomads chasing their shadows in the deserts of culture.

But neither art nor aesthetics is alone in being doomed to this melancholy destiny of living not beyond their means, but beyond their ends.

Let us turn our gaze towards the Southern lands, where only the melancholy light of origins shines.

Melancholic and fascinated, such is our general situation in an era of involuntary transparency.

Canturrea para no pensar, padece como una avara, a veces desea sufrir un buen golpe, hundirse en la desesperación

But they never last, the golden days. And it can be sad, the sun in the afternoon, can't it? Yes, it can be sad, the afternoon sun, sad and frightening.

Everything tender and melancholy - as life is sometimes, just for one moment.

It is strange how sad it can be - sunlight in the afternoon, don't you think?

The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still. Like when they say, As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.

Why are you sad?

O t?cere des?vârÅŸit? te îndeamn? la tristeÈ›e, e ca o icoan? a morÈ›ii.

Lina didn't really feel cold but she did feel sad, which was in a way the same.

Still, somewhere in the depths of ourselves we all harbor an ashamed, unsatisfied melancholy that quietly awaits a funeral.

I'm going to leave, I'm going to take my train. But behind the existence which falls from one present to the other, without a past, without a future, behind these sounds which decompose from day to day, peel off and slip towards death, the melody stays the same, young and firm, like a pitiless witness.

We stay silent for a moment. Evening is coming on; I can hardly make out the pale spot of her face. Her black dress melts with the shadow which floods the room. I pick up my cup mechanically, there's a little tea left in it and I bring it to my lips. The tea is cold. I want to smoke but I don't dare. I have the terrible feeling that we have nothing more to say to one another.

could we not conceive of a philosophy of existence linked, not solely to experiences of separation, forlornness, and profound melancholy, but also to feelings of hope and confidence?

It is useless work that darkens the heart.

Chopin--Two embalmers at work upon a minor poetthe scent of tuberosesAutumn rain.

Sad songs seem to work for me, but I don't want to be redundant; I want to add a little flavor.

All my work shares a kind of balance between black comedy and sad and despairing melancholy.