Quotes About Despair

There is not even a Scrabble word for how bad I feel.

Then he pulled out a handgun and shot me in the chest. I was standing on the lawn and I fell. The bullet hole opened wide and my heart rolled out of my rib cage and down into a flower bed. Blood gushed rhythmically from my open wound, then from my eyes, my ears, my mouth. It tasted like salt and failure. The bright red shame of being unloved soaked the grass in front of our house, the bricks of the path, the steps of the porch. My heart spasmed among the peonies like a trout.

I lie in my darkened room. Scavenger birds peck at the oozing matter that leaks from my crushed skull.

A lot of times, I wish I were dead, I truly do, just to make the pain stop.

Tragedy is ugly and tangled, stupid and confusing.

It makes it hard to be alive, some days. A lot of times I wish I were dead, I truly do, just to make the pain stop.

I was pure liquid loss, then, for an hour or two.

Bu dünya berbat bir yer, hepsi bu.

There is not a scrabble word for how bad I feel." -We Were Liars

A book is a postponed suicide.

Skepticism is the sadism of embittered souls.

Quien no haya concebido jamás su propia anulación, quien no haya presentido el recurso a la cuerda, a la bala, al veneno o al mar, es un recluso envilecido o un gusano reptante sobre la carroña cósmica. Este mundo puede quitarnos todo, puede prohibirnos todo, pero no está en el poder de nadie impedir nuestra autoabolición

We dread the future only when we are not sure we can kill ourselves when we want to.

An existence transfigured by failure.

Haven't people learnned yet that the time of superficial intellectual games is over, that agony is infinitely more important than syllogism, that a cry of despair is more revealing than the most subtle thought, and that tears always have deeper roots than smiles?

The lot of the man who has rebelled too much is to have no energy left except for disappointment.

He knew that loneliness was poisoning him, so that he grew viler as well as more unhappy.

He lived on, miserable and misunderstood, as before, and increasingly lonely. One cannot write those words too often: Maurice's loneliness: it increased.

But that some sonatas of Beethoven are written tragic no one can gainsay; yet they can triumph or despair as the player decides, and Lucy had decided that they should triumph.

But he saw only dying light and a dead land. He uttered no prayer, believed in no deity, and knew that the past was devoid of meaning like the present, and a refuge for cowards.

Now it is all dark. Now Beauty and Passion seem never to have existed. I know. But remember the mountains over Florence and the view...

Then Maurice said in affectionate yet dejected tones, 'All right. To Hell with it,' and they passed on together in the rain.

I do not want my voice to go out into the air while my heart is sinking.

Yes: the heart of his agony would be loneliness. He took time to realize this, being slow. The incestuous jealousy, the mortification, the rage at his past obtuseness—these might pass, and having done much harm they did pass. Memories of Clive might pass. But the loneliness remained. He would wake and gasp "I've no one!" or "Oh Christ, what a world!