Quotes About Melancholy

I assure that I should breathe my last without pain and almost with joy if I were certain of leaving to the friends who love me, not poignant regrets, but a gentle, affectionate, somewhat melancholy remembrance of me.

Dragostea noastra a fost invinsa de intonatii.

No podía imaginarme que pudiese poseer una cualidad alegre: pertenecía a esa clase de individuos cuya presencia hace que todo salga mal.

Son, can you play me a memory. I'm not really sure how it goes. It was sad and it was sweet and I knew it complete when I wore a younger man's clothes.

When you write my epitaph, you must say I was the loneliest person who ever lived.

I've always been a fan of the melancholy, like Morrissey. I grew up playing classical nocturnes like Chopin and Debussy on piano, so I write really melancholy lyrics and melodies

What Berlin had created was a hybrid pop song. It had a great hook and a memorable title, and it was easy to sing. It also melded a slight melancholy, which Berlin reckoned he had learned from 'Slavonic and Semitic folk tunes', with the vogueish ragtime style, which is what gave it a subtle urban edge (he later wrote an essay called 'Song and Sorrow Are Playmates').

Writing is a defence against boredom, but it's also a cure for melancholy.

Camino pensado en la melancolía de este mundo que no se acaba de construir jamás.

the melancholy of a world eternally under construction...

Cz?owiek miewa w ?yciu takie chwile, ?e lubi otacza? si? przedmiotami, które przypominaj? smutek.

Line for line, voices followed in simple harmony until the hymn ended in a melancholy murmur.

Loneliness becomes an acid that eats away at you.

I feel like I've swallowed a cloudy sky

Music has that power to revive memories, sometimes so intensely that they hurt. But

Sometimes, however, this sense of isolation, like acid spilling out of a bottle, can unconsciously eat away at a person's heart and dissolve it.

Maybe in some distant place, everything is already, quietly, lost. Or at least there exists a silent place where everything can disappear. Or at least there exists a silent place where everything can disappear, melting together in a single overlapping figure. And as we live our lives we discover—drawing toward us the thin threads attached to each—what has been lost.

It was a small room with dim light coming in the window, reminiscent of old Polish films.

Snow floated down every once in a while, but it was frail snow, like a memory fading into the distance.

Whenever she was asked to play something, this piece was the one she most often chose. "Le mal du pays." The groundless sadness called forth in a person's heart by a pastoral landscape. Homesickness. Melancholy. As he lightly shut his eyes and gave himself up to the music, Tsukuru felt his chest tighten with a disconsolate, stifling feeling, as if, before he'd realized it, he'd swallowed a hard lump of cloud.

It was a day like a slow-motion video of twilight. Uneventful, to put it mildly. The lead gray of the sky mixed ever so slowly with black, finally blending into night. Just another quality of melancholy. As if there were only two colors in the world, gray and black, shifting back and forth at regular intervals.

Like the song says, rainy days and Mondays always get ya down .

All the colorful lights had been turned off and the sky was the color of television static.

I've never written a happy love song.