Quotes About Melancholy

Already there was black rain inside me.

Léo ferré disait de la mélancolie: « C'est un désespoir qui n'a pas les moyens. »

I like to be in my pajamas all day. Sometimes I don't wash for days because I like to read and sit around. I like to eat in bed. I like melancholy. I like to pretend that I'm alone in the world and I'm just sort of abandoned. I'm not fun to be with.

By the time I left to go downtown for supper, I was at the high point just short of where intoxication begins to droop into clumsiness or melancholy; and the minute I was outdoors the streets, in the very beautiful late of afternoon weather, improved, that if it can be improved, with the feeling of being alone for a little while, and with the sharp, tender enjoyment of a city I am ordinarily tired in.

Ursula is something I will never feel again: she is Melancholy, cut into the soul and flesh.

Sabia que não ia voltar mas continuava pensando com tanta força. Como quando se tira um vestido velho do baú, um vestido que não é para usar, só para olhar. Só para ver como ele era. Depois a gente dobra de novo e guarda mas não se cogita em jogar fora ou dar. Acho que saudade é isso.

Ela deixou pender os braços desamparados dentro das mangas do hábito, inclinou a cabeça e ficou pensativa, olhando para dentro de si mesma. E o que vê não deve ser animador.

In spite of Mr. Poe's fame, the pair made me feel out of sorts, and sad. In one of the busiest cities in the world, they seemed to exist on a bleak island of their own making, their backs turned against the social tide lapping at the battered door.

Though day, the crickets called in the grass; my mother's singing rose from the camp. I lifted my arms; I could not help it. The breeze itself was warm; the islands soft with moss; the loons calling melancholy in forgotten bays; and Life in all its operations seemed unspeakably generous.

Washed, anointed, oiled, combed and curled, catered for and courted by lovely attendants, and his purpose crowned by a miraculous concatenation of convenient conditions, Bonaventura's instinctive reaction, when he heard this unusual wailing in the rafters of the roof above him and this long-drawn melancholy moaning in the corridors and landings and stairways and cellars beneath him, was simply to feel peevishly annoyed with the God he worshipped.

summertime." "I remember it well.

Heya mola, heya mola diye ÅŸark? söylüyorlard? bara yaslanm??, bulant?yla baÅŸ edebilmek için ÅŸarap içerken.

They're beautiful. But sad.' Everything's sad if you make it so, I said.

a trance of desolation

His outlook was typically one of gloom.

Idiot Wind." Jack would always remember that song.)

The Third Man Theme

Vienna, Garp thought, was a cadaver; all Europe, maybe, was a dressed-up corpse in an open coffin.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death...

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness,—- That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath.

Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?