Quotes About Melancholy

It is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in a most humorous sadness.

It is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in a most humorous sadness. – SHAKESPEARE, As You Like It

Don't you remember sweet Alice Ben Bolt? Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown; Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembl'd with fear at your frown!

Depression is the inability to construct a future.

No one is more profoundly sad than he who laughs too much.

Reminiscences make one feel so deliciously aged and sad.

He's simply got the instinct for being unhappy highly developed.

For seldom shall she hear a tale So sad, so tender, yet so true.

Melancholy men are of all others the most witty.

All the world's a mass of folly, Youth is gay, age melancholy: Youth is spending, age is thrifty, Mad at twenty, cold at fifty; Man is nought but folly's slave, From the cradle to the grave.

?esto sjedim sate i sate i gledam u hladne jesenje boje. Mir sudbine koja se više ne da promijeniti ledi mi se na duši i licu. Sve je u meni mrtvo; tako mi je dobro. Ne dopire do mene zvuk, umro mi je o?inji vid. Sve je ostalo za velikom kapijom koja se zatvorila muklo za mnom. Izgubio sam sve i nisam više ?ovjek nego nemirna besana misao koja je potonula i pri?utala se na dubokom dnu, a nada mnom su kao neprozirne zelene mase voda, mir, daljina i zaborav

Ama aptall?k ettim, iyi vakit geçirtmek yerine onu kasvete boÄŸdum. Gerçekten de dünyan?n ÅŸark?c?lara ve dansç?lara kalmas? gerek! Gereksiz ac?lar, aylakça melankoli, boÅŸ piÅŸmanl?klar! -Barbarlar? Beklerken

Space is space,life is life,everywhere is the same. But as for me, sustained by the toil of others, lacking civilized vices with which to fill my leisure, I pamper my melancholy and try to find in the vacuousness of the desert a special historical poignancy. Vain, idle, misguided! How fortunate that no one sees me!

he seems to be on the brink of one of his bad spells again, one of the fits of lugubrious self-pity that turn into black gloom. He likes to think that they comes from elsewhere, episodes of bad weather that cross the sky and pass on. He prefers not to think they come from inside him and are his, part of him.

I stood listening to the night breeze rustle the leaves, and watched the bats flicker against the last light, and felt the sweeping melancholy of those who pass their days in the midst of insupportable beauty in the knowledge that one day they will die.

And what does the rain say at night in a small town, what does the rain have to say? Who walks beneath dripping melancholy branches listening to the rain? Who is there in the rain's million-needled blurring splash, listening to the grave music of the rain at night, September rain, September rain, so dark and soft? Who is there listening to steady level roaring rain all around, brooding and listening and waiting, in the rain-washed, rain-twinkled dark of night?

I feel impossibly sad and like I'll die, what can we do?

We are sealed in our own little melancholy atmospheres, like planets, and revolving around the sun, our common but distant desire.

She turned away wearily. We lay on our backs, looking at the ceiling and wondering what God had wrought when He made life so sad.

Nothin to do, Oh poo! Practically blue.

We lay on our backs, looking at the ceiling and wondering what God had wrought when He made life so sad.

Soon it got dusk, a grappy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgundy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries. LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities; New York gets god-awful cold in the winter but there's a feeling of wacky comradeship somewhere in some streets. LA is a jungle.

O sad American night!

no te das cuenta de que es un privilegio regalar cosas a los demás? -Y lo hacía de un modo muy agradable. No había nada de navideño ni de ostentoso, sino algo casi triste, y en ocasiones sus regalos eran cosas viejas que tenían el encanto de lo útil y lo melancólico.