Quotes About Despair

In a fleshy tomb I am buried above ground.

The Castaway" Obscurest night involved the sky, The Atlantic billows roared, When such a destined wretch as I, washed headlong from on board. Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, His floating home forever left...

What matters it, O breeze, If now has come the spring When I have lost them both The garden and my nest?

Sometimes I sense that I have lost an intensity of feeling along with the moments of lacerating despair, I have greedily swapped them for ordinary life. That may sound dull, but I tell you it is sweet. It is not caviar I crave, but clean sheets and hot soup.

Scotsmen are metaphisical and emotional, they are sceptical and mystical, they are romantic and ironic, they are cruel and tender, and full of mirth and despair.

Imagine then, by miracle, with me,(Ambiguous gifts, as what gods give must be)What could not possibly be there,And learn a style from a despair.

I'm bad and I'm going to hell, and I don't care. I'd rather be in hell than anywhere where you are.

I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire...I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all of your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.

You have to hate how the world goes on.

He lay on the bed and he felt he might never rise from it. He lay in an enormous torpor. The world was too heavy to bear and it was settling itself onto his chest. He felt old, old. Civilizations had risen and fallen in the brief time that he had lived. He felt that when the old man's head exploded across the snow he should have turned the gun on himself.

It was a place if not hell then certainly the room across the hall from it.

The last time I saw my woman she had a wine glass in her hand. She was drinking down her troubles with a no good sorry man.

His voice rose under the black smoke before the burning wreckage of the island; and infected by that emotion, the other little boys began to shake and sob too. And in the middle of them, with filthy body, matted hair, and unwiped nose, Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of mans heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy.

As the bloody Jews and Roman soldiers exercised their cruelty on every part almost of Christ's body, crowning his head with thorns, goring his side with a spear, and fastening his hands and feet with nails; so the despairing sinner deals with the whole name of God.

David's sin was great, yet [he] found mercy. Peter fell foully, yet [is] now in heaven. Why sittest thou here, O my soul, under the hatches of despair? Up and call upon thy God for mercy, who hath pardoned the same to others.

Happiness is just a priest who reads us words of consolation while we walk up the steps to the hangman.

Hope is the best possession. None are completely wretched but those who are without hope. Few are reduced so low as that.

few odd souls wandered about Surf Avenue looking for something to do. Sheets of newspaper blew like tumbleweed down broad, empty streets. Overhead, a pair of sea gulls hovered, scanning the ground for discarded scraps. All along the avenue, cotton candy stands, fun houses, and games of chance were tightly shuttered, like clowns without makeup. Nathan

Fear is a numbing thing when there is no recourse to hope or escape...

God never promised us an easy life. He never promised that we wouldn't suffer, that we wouldn't feel despair and loneliness and confusion and desperation. What he did promise was that in our suffering we would never be alone. And though we may sometimes make ourselves blind and deaf to his presence he is beside us and around us and within us always. We are never separated from his love.

When darkness comes over your soul, it doesn't come in light shades; it descends with all the black of a moonless night.

Sam's Place had never felt so empty. He suspected the emptiness was not in the old Quonset hut; it was in him. There was nothing in him now, nothing but the great emptiness of death, which he seemed to carry with him like a virus.

Cork wished there were a forecast for his spirit. He felt the dark and the cold penetrating deep in him. He wondered when there would be warmth again, when there would be light.

There was no point in looking again. He [Cork] knew that. No point except to feed the coldness inside him. In a strange way, that was exactly what he wanted now. He wanted to feed himself to the cold until the cold had consumed him and he didn't care anymore.