Quotes About Despair

The world always seems like it's going to hell when you're depressed. And, of course, it always is going to hell in some way. That's what makes it so hard to tell the difference between Armageddon and the blues.

My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis, for object, strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.

But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long-preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust; The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.

Everything drains from my body. There's no thrill of being right. It's just an overwhelming sense of dread.

impotent misery

Churchill sensed he was speaking into a void, and years later he wrote of that debate, 'I felt a sensation of despair. To be so entirely convinced and vindicated in a matter of life and death to one's country, and not to be able to make Parliament and the nation heed the warning, or bow to the proof by taking action, was an experience most painful.

Continuous unremitting darkness has been known to send some people into an emotional tailspin, so the management here at KBHR radio suggests locking away the firearms. The desire to stick that 45 between the teeth can get pretty strong at times, so why invite temptation.

Nonsense. You aren't alive to begin with," I pointed out. "Suck it up and make the best of it, Milo. The future is bright, I assure you." "We come into existence, and we float through space, doomed, until we all die horribly. No reason to live at all." Milo the busboy wept uncontrollably. He probably knew more than I did, but who can say?

Depression is the flaw in love. To be creatures who love, we must be creatures who can despair at what we lose, and depression is the mechanism of that despair.

Psychologically, I will not have to seek far if I decide to kill myself, because in my mind and heart I am more ready for this than for the unplanned daily tribulations that mark off the mornings and afternoons.

The past five months of loafing had demoralized him, the underside of his creativity being a destructiveness which tore at himself and others. 'I should like to sit down with [half] dozen chosen companions,' he wrote Perkins, 'and drink myself to death but I am sick alike of life, liquor and literature.

And you? Don't you have dreams now?' 'I do,' he said bitterly. 'But seldom since we crossed the Yaruga. And I remember nothing after waking. Something has ended in me, Cahir. Something has burned out. Something has ruptured in me . . .' 'Never mind, Geralt. I shall dream for both of us.

I can't bear the pointlessness of what we're doing. Because it is pointless. It's one great, enormous pointless pit of pointlessness.

Czu?em si? jak wypchany czym? gorszym ni? trociny.

Nic tak nie przywraca ch?ci do ?ycia jak spierdolone samobójstwo.

The Christian hope is not for a gradually improving world any more than it is for a fountain of youth. But Christian hope overcomes the forces of despair and decay in the midst of this world, and provides foretastes of the coming kingdom where anyone who will receive the Lamb's sacrifice will be raised to life, and where the glory and honor of the nations will be presented as offerings to the King of kings.

Something has crumbled inside him. Something has broken. Like corrupt clockwork in a smashed watch.

I don't have a lot of words, but I have a lot of faith. I know the road feels low and winding, and we seem to need the pain to cut to the core, to emerge from the sleepwalk of despair and feel through the numbness of disconnect and indifference. But if we let ourselves feel this, we will be better for it.

Like the wild beasts, she lives without a future. She inhabits only the present tense, a fugue of the continuous, a world of sensual immediacy as without hope as it is without despair.

And from the coffin of your madness there is no escape.

Despair is the constant companion of the clown.

And it was sad music fit to make you cut your throat.

There is a vast melancholy in the canticles of the wolves, melancholy infinite as the forest, endless as these long nights of winter and yet that ghastly sadness, that mourning for their own, irremediable appetites, can never move the heart for not one phrase in it hints at the possibility of redemption; grace could not come to the world from its own despair, only through some external mediator, so that, sometimes, the beast will look as if he half welcomes the knife that despatches him.

Sade's manicheistic dualism sees the world as irredeemably evil; vice must always prosper, virtue always despair. There is no hope for us as we are now.[...]Sade's vision is utterly without transcendence.