Quotes About Despair

the country of the poor can be abandoned no longer. For i dread what is growing in that country now. I fear we shall reap a venomous crop

Despair busies one, and my weekend was spoken for. I was going to lie down on the floor of my apartment in the draft of the air conditioner and spend two days and nights traveling a circuit of regret, self-pity, and jealousy.

even my work, the largest of the pots and pans I'd placed under my life's leaking ceiling, had become to small to contain my misery.

Mira, Deborah, los vecinos vienen a verme, para consolarme. Pero a pesar de que son muchos y de que todos se estrujan el cerebro, no hallan consuelo para mi situación. Mi corazón aún late. Mis ojos aún ven. Mis miembros aún se mueven. Mis pies aún caminan. Como y bebo, rezo y respiro. Pero mi sangre se paraliza. Mis manos están marchitas. Mi corazón, vacío. Ya no soy Mendel Singer. Soy lo que queda de Mendel Singer. América nos ha matado.

But the sound of despair is never pleasant; it sounds suspiciously like lying.

Our grandfathers didn't leave us much strength, not enough strength to live with, but just about enough to die a meaningless death. Ach!

His jaws parted as he fought for breath. "There's nothing left . . ." he choked out. "It's all dark—everything's gone. . .

Bluefur moaned.

I hate being blind. I wish I had never been born!

Everything seemed meaningless to me. All of a sudden. My own life, the lives of others, of animals of plants, the whole world. It no longer fitted together.

I sat there thinking this had to be the pits. I was afraid that I had become fed up with life, that I would never ever feel enthusiasm again.

I feel alone, I've always felt alone and I push everyone away because I'm a prat like everyone else, and no one knows me and I fear no on one will ever know men for as long as I live, and I give up and in the end I just shout shit, shit, shit until I lose my voice.

You know you've totally screwed up your life when your whole world turns to shit and the only person you have to talk to is your system agent software.

The once-great country into which I'd been born now resembled its former self in name only. It didn't matter who was in charge. Those people were rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic and everyone knew it.

I was devastated. I was still in love with her.

The most tragic form of loss isn't the loss of security; it's the loss of the capacity to imagine that things could be different.

Kein Volk ist wahrhaft frei ohne die Freiheit seiner Nachbarn. Die Politiker belügen sich selbst und belügen die Bürger, sie nennen ihre Interessen Ideale, für diese Ideale, für Gold, für Land, für Erz, für Öl, für lauter tote Dinge sterben, hungern, verzweifeln die Menschen. Überall. Die Frage der Kriegsschuld verblaßt vor der Schuld des Kapitalismus.

On the brink of sleep I have a gloomy thought: that saving yourself is only pushing yourself even deeper into the trap rather than getting out. Dying is the only way out.

T]he two fundamental tragedies of human existence, frustrated love and death

Frankly, the people who whine the most about how hard their lives are have very rarely experienced much to be disappointed about. They seem to find solace in their most negative memories, using these as a blank check that abdicates them from all personal responsibility. "I am how I am because of the pain of my past. If you had experienced what I have experienced, you would understand my bitterness, my anger, my paralysis, my despair.

Y'know," he said and arched his back till his head reached the cereal shelf. "You know how they say suicides always happen in threes? Well, there's something to it. People around you start dying, and you begin to ask yourself what the hell makes you different, and what's keeping you alive anyway. It hit me like a Scud. I mean, I just didn't have the answers.

He felt full of a dense and sour substance that was blocking his chest, and it wasn't grief. After all those years, life now seemed like no more than a trap, a maze, not even a maze, just a room that was all walls, no door.

There was no sound anywhere. No twitter of wakening birds in the gum trees, no bleat from the sandy paddocks, no low of far-off cattle. Silence - the frightful silence of Drought that has killed all life and now broods over the place aghast at her own handiwork.

Il m'arrive souvent, ces derniers temps, de trouver plus facile de mourir que de vivre. (61)