Quotes About Melancholy

That was what happened to laughter when you caged it. It became unbearably sad. It was worse than crying.

Melancholy is sadness that has taken on lightness.

ma Pin non ha voglia di giocare e continua a camminare a perdifiato, con una tristezza che gli annuvola la gola.

it's that particular connection between melancholy and humor that Klibansky, Panofsky, and Saxl examined in Saturn and Melancholy (1964). Just as melancholy is sadness made light, so humor is comedy that has lost its physical weight (that dimension of human carnality that, however, makes Boccaccio and Rabelais great) and casts doubts on the self, the world, and the entire network of relations they form.

Io, invece, in mezzo a tanto fervore d'interezza, mi sentivo sempre più triste e manchevole. Alle volte uno si crede incompleto ed è soltanto giovane.

Sólo lo triste, los depresivo, lo susceptible, lo delicado, lo quebradizo me conmovía y me parecía bello.

Although the cricket's song has no words, still, it sounds like sorrow.

This was what real grief felt like—she had never truly felt it before. All the times she had been sad, all the times she had wept in her life, all the glooms and melancholies were merely moods, mere passing whims. Grief was a different thing altogether.

Christmas can have a real melancholy aspect, 'cause it packages itself as this idea of perfect family cohesion and love, and you're always going to come up short when you measure your personal life against the idealized personal lives that are constantly thrust in our faces, primarily by TV commercials.

Issue de la mélancolie, la littérature en est l'accomplissement et l'achèvement. C'est par la mélancolie qu'on entre en littérature. C'est par la littérature qu'on sort de la mélancolie.

Melankoli adeta kimyasalm??. Havada as?l?ym??. Sabahlar? kokusunu duyabilirmi?sin.

Like most clichés, it is fundamentally true that the anxious, the melancholy, the manic, and the obsessed are more likely to become therapists than other people.

Bring me your Nortons, your Kramdens, your housewives, and sewermen. Weight my limbs with the nests of your flotsam, that we may chirp in chorus this melancholy anthem. Mourn with your busdriver piety this sapless husk; dull with your tender hymn the string of the lumberman's axe.

I know a girl who cries when she practices violin because each note sounds so pure it just cuts into her, and then the melody comes pouring out her eyes. Now, to me, everything else just sounds like a lie.

It seems melancholy weather." "I prefer to think of it more as weather designed for reflection." "You are the eternal optimist.

He sat quietly for a moment, lost in what was now and forever the past. The scene he described would never be repeated. That overheard sound would never be heard again.

I'm having a hard time writing about Sunday. Getting the long hollow feeling of Sundays. No mail and faraway lawn mowers, the hopelessness.

This is why there was music. There were some feelings that just didn't have words big enough to describe them.

This man has the same kind of charm, the kind that suggests weakness, the kind that indicates how sad he will always make her feel. There is something dependable, unfailing in this sort of sadness.

What is it about such occasions of timeless time that afterwards makes them seem touched with such a precious, melancholy sweetness? Sometimes it seems to me that it is in those vacant intervals, without my being aware of it, that my true life has been most authentically lived.

Some people make it their life's work, being unhappy.

I looked out into the luminous grey twilight, aghast and in an obscure way proud at the thought of what I had lost, of what might have been.

The landings were dirty and the walls were bare. This stairway brought me into the balcony, and I sat there in the dark, thinking that nothing now was going to save me, that no pretty girl with new shoes was going to cross my path in time.

If there is anybody I detest, it is weak-minded sentimentalists – all those melancholy people who, out of an excess of sympathy for others, miss the thrill of their own essence and drift through life without identity, like a human fog, feeling sorry for everyone.