Quotes About Despair

Yet the love is there, the love is there — only it's as if it's so wounded it has curled up and gone into a black hole.

She dreamt she saw the Polish Rider passing slowly by and he was weeping and she called out to him, but he turned his head away. She dreamt that she was drowning in the pool of tears.

The easiest thing to think was that he was going to die. This was not exactly an intent to commit suicide, though he did consider suicide, it was rather a sense of the impossibility of surviving much longer, whatever he did, whatever he chose. He felt rent apart by an unremitting mental, felt as physical, strain. When he was alone he groaned aloud.

I have been struck down before my life begins. I have already died in the war.

You die at heart from a withdrawal of love.

For me, nothing can ever be well again.

It is particularly hard to overcome resentment caused by injustice. And I was so lonely. The bottomless bitter misery of childhood : how little even now it is understood. Probably no adult misery can be compared with a child's despair.

He thought, this is hell, not being able to live with oneself.

This thought was so heavy with despair that she almost began to cry again.

Little pictures out of hell.

She had made some sort of life-mistake which meant that everything would grow worse and never better.

He was conscious of his body as a heavy cold horrible container. He had the feeling, coming to him as the memory of a dream, of being a prisoner waiting to be tortured. The extremity of pain was yet to come. And even now he was denied to comfort of self-pitying misery and warm tears.

Life is horrible, horrible, horrible, said the philosopher.

The pit of melancholy was a bottomless one, and he was descending fast, falling further away from the good times. Such times often seemed tantalisingly within reach; he could see them, going on all around him. His mind was like a cruel prison, giving his captive soul a sight of freedom, but no more.

The Victim was a chronic fuck-up. People Like her always seemed to hang out with The Poisonous Cunt. In turn, she kept their self-esteem low and made sure that they stayed in psychic immiseration. She was a curator of dead souls.

Schopenhauer was right: Life has to be about disillusionment stumbling inexorably towards the totally fucked.

Begbie doesnae even notice; he's in his element, particularly good at funerals in the way a lot ay psychopaths tend tae be. Ah suppose if bringing death and despair is yir life's work, then being somewhere like this must feel like a result; the job's already done and you can just kick back and relax.

Everything is muffled and car-crash-like and I want to speak but she's looking through me and I'm looking through alcohol. We're nowhere near each other even as we stumble in tandem through our disintegrating lives.

His mind was like a cruel prison, giving his captive soul a sight of freedom, but no more

You pushed me away mister. You rejected me. You tricked me and spoiled things between me and my true love. I've seen you before. Long ago, just lying there as you are now. Black, broken, dying, I was glad then and I'm glad now.

Thir must be less tae life than this. More pain, then more sleep/pain.

ah've found fuck all else, ZERO, tae fill this big, BLACK HOLE like a clenched fist in the centre ay my fucking chest …

Just lay it doon ... Renton whispers, looking at the zombie faces of his friends, trying to fight off the notion that besets him; we're not human any more. We've slipped out of our skins like lizards, shedding not just our pasts, but our futures. We're shadows.

Misery is the only thing in the world that has no end or edge.