Quotes About Despair

Godly despair cries out for perspective but allows the hollowness of loss to move the heart to seek God.

Darkness feeds on apathy.

The cries of hopelessness against the howling wind of the Pyrenees and the soft sobs of forgotten men.

The first time she had tried to kill herself, she had intuited that there was no escape. She had seen, with sudden clarity, that her life was a series of boxes, a maze that she would run and run through and never find an exit, and she thought, almost peacefully, I don't want it. I don't want my life.

Constant forgetting is the best cure for all your maladies of anxiety and depression and self-loathing and despair. Rx, Rx, Rx.

Then he began to see through too many things. He cogitated all the hope out of his life, which of course is the danger.

a story Serafim had told about a man who was always tired and who prayed each day for more energy. His prayers were never answered, until one day, in a fit of despair, he cried, "Please, oh, Lord, fill me with energy!" And God answered, "I'm always filling you, but you keep leaking!

But energy must flow somewhere," his voice continued. "Where energy meets obstructions, it burns — and if energy builds up beyond what a given individual can tolerate, it demands release. Anger grows into rage, sorrow turns to despair, concern becomes obsession, and physical aches become agony. So energy can also be a curse. Like a river, it can bring life, but untamed it can unleash a raging flood of destruction.

Bad people don't go to hell, they are already there.

Francis Crozier believes in nothing. Life is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short . It has no plan, no point, no hidden mysteries that make up for the oh-so-obvious miseries and banalities. Nothing he has learned in the past six months has persuaded him otherwise. Has it?

Why does our species always have to take our full measure of God-given misery and terror and mortality and then make it worse?

Stand as I did after throwing the switch, a murderer, a betrayer, but still proud, feet firmly planted on Hyperion's shifting sand, head held high, fist raised against the sky, crying "A plague on both your houses!

Sometimes there is no hope, whispered Das. There's always some hope, Mr. Das. No, Mr. Luczak, there is not. Sometimes there is only pain. And acquiescence to pain. And, perhaps, defiance at the world which demands such pain. Defiance is a form of hope, is it not, sir?

She would follow him there. And she would die there -- and die soon. Of misery and of strangeness and of all the vicious, petty, alien, and unbridled thoughts that would pour into her like the poison from the Goldner tins poured into Fitzjames -- unseen, vile, deadly.

Martin Silenus strides back to the dying fire. "Worse," he says. "He could be twisting on the Shrike's steel tree. Where we'll be in a few—" Brawne Lamia rises suddenly and grasps the poet by his shirtfront. She lifts him off the ground, shakes him

I wish I could help him. I wish I could help the dozens of other Sufferers - all the victims of wounds, maulings, burns, diseases, incipient malnutrition, and melancholic despair - aboard this entrapped ship and her sister ship. I wish I could help myself, for already I am showing the early signs of Nostalgia and Debility. But there is little that I - or any surgeon in the Year of Our Lord 1848 - can do. God help us all.

Trust me. I've seen it in London and I've seen it with shipwreck. Death by scurvy is worse. It would be better if the Thing took us all tonight. And with that we went below to the flame-flickering Darkness of the lower deck and to a cold almost the equal of the Dante-esque Ninth Circle Arctic Night without.

I've never been in a place that seemed as mean or shitty, and I've spent time in some of the great sewer cities of the world.

of Dante's Commedia and seem to see the phrase "LASCIATE OGNE SPERANZA, VOI CH'INTRATE"—"Abandon Every Hope, Who Enter Here"—chiseled

Anything is better than this penny-dreadful tale I've found myself in.

Francis Crozier believes in nothing. Life is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short. It has no plan, no point, no hidden mysteries that make up for the oh-so-obvious miseries and banalities. Nothing he has learned in the last six months has persuaded him otherwise. Has it?

I meant only to point out that in hopelessness there is always hope.

I despair at the rise of modern violence. I truly give in to despair at times, that deep, futureless pit of despair which Hopkins called carrion comfort.

LASCIATE OGNE SPERANZA, VOI CH'INTRATE