Quotes About Melancholy

He was seeking a lost innocence and settings made for enjoyment and ease, but where one could never be happy again.

How long did they stay there in that room, on the narrow bed? She had a scar on her shoulder, in the shape of a star, that Louis couldn't help but run his lips over. A souvenir of a fall from a horse. It got dark. They could hear the clattering of hooves, a whinny, and the high-pitched voice of the marquis giving orders at more and more distant intervals, like a motif on a flute, clear and desolate, returning again and again.

La nuit tombe tôt et cela vaut mieux : elle efface la grisaille et la monotonie de ces jours de pluie où l'on se demande s'il fait vraiment jour et si l'on ne traverse pas un état intermédiaire, une sorte d'éclipsé morne, qui se prolonge jusqu'à la fin de l'après-midi.

You," I said, "are sweet music in a distant room.

Then I played the song that hides in the center of me. That wordless music that moves through the secret places in my heart. I played it carefully, strumming it slow and low into the dark stillness of the night. I would like to say it is a happy song, that it is sweet and bright, but it is not.

Luego toqué la canción que se esconde en el centro de mí. Esa música sin letra que recorre los rincones secretos de mi corazón. La toqué con cuidado, desgranando las notas lenta y suvamente en el oscuro silencio nocturno. Me gustaría poder decir que es una canción alegre, que es dulce y animada, pero no lo es.

Sentirse solo era terrible.

As he sorted and packed, the red-haired man seemed content. But if you looked more closely you might have noticed that while his hands were busy, his eyes were far away. And while his expression was composed, pleasant even, there was no joy in it. He did not hum or whistle while he worked. He did not sing.

He was so full of disgust, disgust at the world and at himself, that he could not weep.

Christmas was coming and there was a pervasive melancholy, as if everyone simultaneously remembered they had nowhere to go. Even

She's too sad to be beautiful. No one that sad can still be beautiful.

It is a grave misconception to regard the mystical progress as passing mostly through ecstasies and raptures. On the contrary, it passes just as much through broken hearts and bruised emotions, through painful sacrifices and melancholy renunciations.

i find nothing more depressing than optimism.

You'll find when you are sad, there'll come a point when you are so sad you don't even know you are sad anymore. It's quite nice.

For eventually one gets over reality's affront to one's innocence. One grows accustomed to the melancholy fact that we all sell ourselves at one time or another, that whoring is the dirty little secret of our success as human beings.

A man gets tied up to the ground, he gives the world its saddest sound.

The long sobsOf the violinsOf autumnPierce my heartWith monotonous languor.

II pleure dans mon coeur Comme il pleut sur la ville. NÆ¡i tim Ä'ây n?c n?, nhÆ° thành ph? mÆ°a rÆ¡i...

Ariette III Il pleure dans mon coeur Comme il pleut sur la ville ; Quelle est cette langueur Qui pénètre mon coeur ? Ô bruit doux de la pluie Par terre et sur les toits ! Pour un coeur qui s'ennuie, Ô le chant de la pluie ! Il pleure sans raison Dans ce coeur qui s'écoeure. Quoi ! nulle trahison ? Ce deuil est sans raison. C'est bien la pire peine De ne savoir pourquoi Sans amour et sans haine Mon coeur a tant de peine !

Chanson d'automne Les sanglots longs Des violons De l'automne Blessent mon coeur D'une langueur Monotone. Tout suffocant Et blême, quand Sonne l'heure, Je me souviens Des jours anciens Et je pleure ; Et je m'en vais Au vent mauvais Qui m'emporte Deçà, delà, Pareil à la Feuille morte.

Il pleure dans mon coeur Comme il pleut sur la ville.

Autumn Song" translated by Arthur Symons When a sighing begins In the violins Of the autumn-song, My heart is drowned In the slow sound Languorous and long Pale as with pain, Breath fails me when The hours toll deep. My thoughts recover The days that are over, And I weep. And I go Where the winds know, Broken and brief, To and fro, As the winds blow A dead leaf.

I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris.

The accordion and the whores and the retching,' he said. 'That's our music.