Quotes About Despair

her soul rusted with that grievance sticking in it

Oh, yes, dear reader: the essay is alive. There is no reason to despair.

En cierta manera, esto era su desastre, su desdicha. Era su castigo el ver hundirse y desaparecer aquí a un hombre, allá a una mujer, en esa profunda oscuridad, mientras ella estaba obligada a permanecer aquí con su vestido de noche.

last the play was ended. All had grown dark. The tears streamed down his face. Looking up into the sky there was nothing but blackness there too. Ruin and death, he thought, cover all. The life of man ends in the grave. Worms devour us.

Why is life so tragic; so like a little strip of pavement over an abyss.

She felt somehow very like him—the young man who had killed himself. She felt glad that he had done it; thrown it away. The clock was striking. The leaden circles dissolved in the air. He made her feel the beauty; made her feel the fun. But she must go back. She must assemble.

He was drowned, he used to say, and lying on a cliff with gulls screaming over him. He would look over the edge of the sofa down into the sea. Or he was hearing music… But "Lovely!" he used to cry and the tears would run down his cheeks, which was to her the most dreadful thing of all, to see a man like Septimus, who had fought, who was brave, crying. And he would lie listening until suddenly he would cry that he was falling down, down into the flames!

That dream, of sharing, completing, of finding in solitude on the beach an answer, was then but a reflection in a mirror, and the mirror itself was but the surface glassiness which forms in quiescence when the nobler powers sleep beneath? Impatient, despairing yet loth to go (for beauty offers her lures, has her consolations), to pace the beach was impossible; contemplation was unendurable; the mirror was broken.

The secret signal which one generation passes, under disguise, to the next is loathing, hatred, despair. Dante

How Shakespeare loathed humanity—the putting on of clothes, the getting of children, the sordidity of the mouth and the belly! This was now revealed to Septimus; the message hidden in the beauty of words. The secret signal which one generation passes, under disguise, to the next is loathing, hatred, despair. Dante the same. Aeschylus (translated) the same.

How he wrote and it seemed good; read and it seemed vile; corrected and tore up; cut out; put in' was in ecstasy' in despair; had his good nights and bad mornings... and could not decide whether he was the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world.

Never did anybody look so sad.

How he wrote and it seemed good; read and it seemed vile; corrected and tore up; cut out; put in; was in ecstasy; in despair; had good nights and bad mornings... and could not decide whether he was the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world.

Mai nessuno era parso così triste. Amara e nera, a metà strada, nelle tenebre, nel raggio che portava dal sole all'abisso, forse si formò una lacrima; una lacrima cadde; le acque ondeggiavano, la accolsero e si richiusero quietamente. Mai nessuno era parso così triste.

With dispassionate despair, with entire disillusionment, I surveyed the dust dance; my life, my friends' lives, and those fabulous presences, men with brooms, women writing, the willow tree by the river — clouds and phantoms made of dust too, of dust that changed, as clouds lose and gain and take gold or red and lose their summits and billow this way and that, mutable, vain.

O amor, para ele, não passara de cinzas e serragem. As alegrias que dele extraíra não tinham gosto nenhum.

I have sought happiness through many ages and not found it; fame and missed it; love and not known it; life--behold, death is better. I have known many men and women, she continued: none have I understood.

This was now revealed to Septimus; the message hidden in the beauty of words. The secret signal which one generation passes, under disguise, to the next is loathing, hatred, despair.

se dirigió al extremo opuesto del salón, haica un rincón en penumbra donde colgaba un espejo, y se miró. ¡No! No iba bien. Y de inmediato la congoja que siempre intentaba ocultar, la profunda insatisfacción - la sensación que tenía, desde que era niña, de ser inferior a los demás -, se apoderó de ella, implacable, despiadada, con tal intensidad que no podía rechazarla

It was bad, it was bad, it was infinitely bad!

I appealed to her stale flesh very seldom, only in cases of great urgency and despair.

The shock of her death froze something in me. The child I loved, was gone, but I kept looking for her - long after I had left my own childhood behind. The poison was in the wound, you see. And the wound wouldn't heal.

He groped for his loafers and walked aimlessly for some time among the trees of the coppice where thrushes were singing so richly, with such sonorous force, such fluty fioriture that one could not endure the agony of consciousness, the filth of life, the loss, the loss, the loss.

a little downy girl still wearing poppies still eating popcorn in the colored gloam where tawny Indians took paid croppers because you stole her from her wax-browed and dignified protector spitting into his heavy-lidded eye ripping his flavid toga and at dawn leaving the hog to roll upon his new discomfort the awfulness of love and violets remorse despair while you took a dull doll to pieces and threw its head away because of all you did because of all I did not you have to die