Quotes About Despair

The languor of Youth - how unique and quintessential it is! How quickly, how irrevocably, lost! The zest, the generous affections, the illusions, the despair, all the traditional attributes of Youth - all save this - come and go with us through life.

But he hated to be sober. It made him conscious of the people around him, of that air of struggle, of greedy ambition, of hope more sordid than despair, of incessant passage up or down…. There was kindliness about intoxication – there was the indescribable gloss and glamour it gave, like the memories of ephemeral and faded evenings

Now the standard cure for one who is sunk is to consider those in actual destitution or physical suffering—this is an all-weather beatitude for gloom in general and fairly salutary day-time advice for everyone. But at three o'clock in the morning, a forgotten package has the same tragic importance as a death sentence, and the cure doesn't work—and in a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.

Tired, tired with nothing, tired with everything, tired with the world's weight he had never chosen to bear.

There's a loneliness that only exists in one's mind. The loneliest moment in someone's life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is blink.

In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.

Long ago, there was something in me, but now that thing is gone. Now that thing is gone, that thing is gone. I cannot cry. I cannot care. That thing will come back no more.

I guess I'm the Black Death,' he said slowly. 'I don't seem to bring people happiness any more.

She was overstrained with grief and loneliness: almost any shoulder would have done as well.

It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room.

But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room.

The tears coursed down her cheeks- not freely, however, for when they came into contact with her heavily beaded eyelashes they assumed an inky color, and pursued the rest of their way in slow black rivulets.

You see I think everything's terrible anyhow. Everybody thinks so--the most advanced people. And I know. I've been everywhere and seen everything and done everything. Sophisticated--God, I'm sophisticated!

going to work so as to forget that there was nothing worth working for

Each life unfulfilled, you see,       It hangs still, patchy and scrappy;     We have not sighed deep, laughed free,       Starved, feasted, despaired—been happy. But his life

Oh, such a shame, such a shame. Oh, such a shame. What's it all about anyhow?" "I've wondered for a long time." "But why bring it to me?" "I guess I'm the Black Death," he said slowly. "I don't seem to bring people happiness any more.

No one likes to see people in moods of despair they themselves have survived.

he hated to be sober. It made him conscious of the people around him, of that air of struggle, of greedy ambition, of hope more sordid than despair, of incessant passage up or down

There had been something in the details he had chosen to describe that made her cry herself asleep that night, for the kitten, for Anthony for herself, for the pain and bitterness and cruelty of all the world.

We'll all be failures? Yes. I don't mean only money failures, but just sort of - of ineffectual and sad, and - oh, how can I tell you?

There was one of his loneliness coming, one of those times when he walked the streets or sat, aimless and depressed, biting a pencil at his desk. It was a self-absorption with no comfort, a demand for expression with no outlet, a sense of time rushing by, ceaselessly and wastefully – assuaged only by that conviction that there was nothing to waste, because all efforts and attainments were equally valueless.

This was a valley of ashes – a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air.

But he hated to be sober. It made him conscious of the people around him, of that air of struggle, of greedy ambition, of hope more sordid than despair.

They awoke, nauseated and tired, dispirited with life, capable only of one pervasive emotion – fear.