Quotes About Despair

But you make them work for you. They live the life of your coal-mine." "Not at all. Every beetle finds its own food. Not one man is forced to work for me. "Their lives are industrialized and hopeless, and so are ours," she cried.

she seemed so like a wet rag that would never dry.

And looking ahead, the prospect of her life made her feel as if she were buried alive.

And then, he was not there. A terrible storm came over her, as if she were drowning. She was possessed by a devastating hopelessness. And she approached mechanically to the altar. Never had she known such a pang of utter and final hopelessness. It was beyond death, so utterly null, desert.

Then there are the sort that are just dead inside. Dead. And they know it.

He rather hated hope. `Une immense espérance a traversé la terre', he read somewhere, and his comment was:`---and it's darned-well drowned everything worth having.

La speranza era diventata quasi una maledizione per lei. Avrebbe voluto che non ce ne fosse bisogno. Ah, che tormento quello sperare, che insulto alla propria anima. Perché non c'era un disastro chiaro, completo, in modo da non pensarci più? Questo andirivieni con la speranza era peggio della disperazione…

Une immense esprance a travers la terre', he read somewhere, and his comment was:'--and it's darned-well drowned everything worth having.

Hope had become almost a curse to her. She wished there need be no such thing. Ha, the torment of hoping, and the insult to one's soul.

When I have to struggle seeking after something, When I feel loneliness in helpless solitude, When I am in despair of myself —These are all thoughts of ourselves. Leave everything to zazen, letting go of thought, Or to single-minded chanting of the sound that sees the -world. At this time, even though we don't know it consciously Suddenly, whatever has happened The living reality of the self that is only the self is there, Just as the big sky is always the big sky.

Only in the chamber of death writhed the world's most piteous thing—a childless mother.

The shades of the prison house closed round about us all: walls strait and stubborn to the whitest, but relentlessly narrow, tall, and unscalable to sons of night who must plod darkly on in resignation, or beat unavailing palms against the stone, or steadily, half hopelessly, watch the streak of blue above.

But alas! while sociologists gleefully count his bastards and his prostitutes, the very soul of the toiling, sweating black man is darkened by the shadow of a vast despair. Men call the shadow prejudice, and learnedly explain it as the natural defence of culture against barbarism, learning against ignorance, purity against crime, the higher against the lower races. To which the Negro cries Amen! and

She stooped for a stone and dropped it down. 'Fancy being where that is now,' she said, peering into the blackness; 'fancy going round and round like a mouse in a pail, clutching at the slimy sides, with the water filling your mouth, and looking up to the little patch of sky above.' 'You had better come in,' said Benson, very quietly. 'You are developing a taste for the morbid and horrible.' (The Well)

Not to be onto something is to be in despair.

Without faith, people perish, and they are perishing before our eyes

Misery misery son of a bitch of all miseries.

The non-suicide is a little traveling suck of care, sucking care with him from the past and being sucked toward care in the future. His breath is high in his chest. The ex-suicide opens his front door, sits down on the steps, and laughs. Since he has the option of being dead, he has nothing to lose by being alive. It is good to be alive. He goes to work because he doesn't have to.

As for hobbies, people with stimulating hobbies suffer from the most noxious of despairs since they are tranquilized in their despair.

Peklo nem?že být plné ohnÄ› - existují daleko horÅ¡í vÄ›ci.

Most Romans worked and played as usual while Rome fell about their ears. But surely it is fair to say that when a man becomes depressed, falls down in a sand trap, and decides to shoot himself, something has gone wrong with the man, not the world.

He suggested a closed casket, smiling an odd smile—fixed and dim-witted, like a porpoise's. If I had just agreed to go to college, I thought, then she'd be alive. Things would be normal. "You're normal!" she'd said. Maybe in death she finally knew: I killed babies, mothers. I deserved this pain, was owed my misery.

I do not snivel that snivel the world over, That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth, That life is a suck and a sell, and nothing remains at the end but threadbare crape and tears.

Shake out carols! Solitary here, the night's carols! Carols of lonesome love! death's carols! Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon! O under that moon where she droops almost down into the sea! O reckless despairing carols.