Quotes About Despair

It was not despair, but it seemed to her as if life were passing by, leaving its promises broken and unfulfilled. Yet there were other days when she listened, was led on and deceived by fresh promises which her youth had held out to her.

knew that this was the world I was in now, a vile dirty place where I was alone, alone, alone.

I don't know where I've gone—where I've gone.' The world was cracking around me. I was so small. A flood of shame spilled from my eyes. 'I've lost myself—I'll never get out. Where's my island? Where's my island gone?

During depression the world disappears. Language itself. One has nothing to say. Nothing. No small talk, no anecdotes. Nothing can be risked on the board of talk. Because the inner voice is so urgent in its own discourse: How shall I live? How shall I manage the future? Why should I go on?

When you have been told that your mind is unsound, there is a kind of despair that takes over

I come from the land where Anna Karenina was written. I believe in love, even if it is doomed.

Tom watched his wife from the doorway, watched as she demonstrated how she had been killed. Though he had thought himself wrung out of tears, he wept, quietly, unashamedly, as Catherine showed off the simple movement that had left her little more than a living corpse.

What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.

For those who have no faith in immortality, its joys and sorrows, certain fatal situations can result in despair and suicide.

Gérard de Nerval

Je suis le ténébreux, — le veuf, — l'inconsolé, Le prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie : Ma seule étoile est morte, — et mon luth constellé Porte le Soleil noir de la Mélancolie." "I am the Dark One, – the Widower, – the Unconsoled The Aquitaine Prince whose Tower is destroyed: My only star is dead,- and my constellated lute Bears the black Sun of Melancholia.

People cannot win against their loneliness because loneliness is this world's worst kind of pain.

Victorious troops are those who kill more, and here we were the victims. This put the finishing touch to our demoralisation. The soldiers had lost conviction long ago. Now they lost confidence.

Maybe it was the willingness to play that hinted at a tender, eternally newborn part in all humans. Maybe it was the willingness to play that kept one from despair.

She drew the curtains, and she got into bed, without taking off her clothes or her shoes. She felt ashamed and foolish. She felt covered in failure and she felt sure that people could smell and see it on her. The failure was like a fine coating of ash, after a fire. But it wasn't only on her skin; it was in her nose, in her mouth, in her lungs, in her molecules becoming part of her. She would never be rid of it.

I imagine people playing. Sometimes, it's one of our games, but sometimes, it's any game. The thing I find profoundly hopeful when I'm feeling despair is to imagine people playing, to believe that no matter how bad the world gets, there will always be players.

But my partner died, and now I detest my work, and I have been blue. More than blue really. I have been in the depths of despair. My grandfather, Fred, who I adored, recently died. It begins to seem to me that life is little more than a series of losses, and as you must know by now, I hate losing. And I suppose I came to Friendship because I no longer wished to be in the place I lived and sometimes I no longer wished to even be in my body.

Maybe it was the willingness to play that kept one from despair.

It would be so easy, Ismay thinks. You walk out. You swim for a while. You swim too far. You don't try to swim back. Your lungs fill up. It hurts for a bit, but then it's over. Nothing ever hurts again, and your conscience is clear. You don't leave a mess. Maybe your body washes up some day. Maybe it doesn't.

Macbeth has just heard the news that his wife had died, and he is giving the most famous soliloquy from the play, the "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow" speech.

I'm bad. I married a bad man, too. And I know that bad people deserve what they get, but oh, how we hate to be alone.

She asks A.J. about his lifestyle. He answers the question truthfully. "I'm not what you'd call an alcoholic, but I do like to drink until I pass out at least once a week. I smoke occasionally and I subsist on a diet of frozen entrees. I rarely floss. I used to be a long-distance runner, but now I don't exercise at all. I live alone and I lack meaningful personal relationships. Since my wife died, I hate my work, too.

Your music is the music of death.

We attach ourselves to our familiar miseries, an easier act than striking out for the territory. This is a sad truth, though not insurmountable: Despair and fear do not disappear overnight when the conditions that wrought them have changed.