Quotes About Despair

People have no respect for impermanence. We take no delight in it; in fact, we despair of it. We regard it as pain. We try to resist it by making things that will last—forever, we say—things that we don't have to wash, things that we don't have to iron. Somehow, in the process of trying to deny that things are always changing, we lose our sense of the sacredness of life. We tend to forget that we are part of the natural scheme of things.

Altogether, ye tang che means totally tired out. We might say "totally fed up." It describes an experience of complete hopelessness, of completely giving up hope. This is an important point. This is the beginning of the beginning. Without giving up hope—that there's somewhere better to be, that there's someone better to be—we will never relax with where we are or who we are.

Sink, he told his hopes, with a kind of satisfaction, sink like a corpse dropped into the river. I am rejected, not for being unwelcome, not even for being ridiculous, but for being nothing.

There is no healing without hope. Despair is life's direst enemy. Despair is living death.

Everyone and everything oppresses me, chokes and maddens me; I am troubled by a crushing physical sense of other people's lack of comprehension.

There was no grandeur here, no sublimity, only weariness and gloom.

sorrow was always the bedfellow of depravity.

Then I fell in love and everything went to hell.

Some time later, I sat in the wine cellar, staring at the walls while cradling a wineskin in my lap like a child, murmuring over and over as if lulling the child to sleep, 'I am shat upon. I am shat upon'.

And at the end of every single day, I stood on the edge of a cliff and stared at the drop and kept trying to find the inner strength to jump off it. Every. Damned. Day. I wrestled with the question of whether to keep on living my lousy existence or simply putting an end to it. For three months. And every day I discovered that ending my life was not an acceptable solution.

The knowledge worker is not poverty-prone. He is in danger of alienation, to use the fashionable word for boredom, frustration, and silent despair.

Nu Å£in s? fiu fericit?,cel mult mulÅ£umit?.Mi-e team? de fericire.Cred c? n-aÅŸ suporta-o.Aici în cap.AÅŸ înnebuni pentru todeauna sau aÅŸ muri.Sau aÅŸ ucide pe cineva.(...)Traiul de unul singur genereaz? cea mai glacial? ÅŸi scârboas? durere:aceea a deÅŸert?ciunii.Atunci ai nevoie de oameni care te înva?? s?-Å£i dai seama c? nu ai dec?zut chiar atât de mult.

God wants us to worry about our sins before we sin; the devil wants us to worry after we sin. God wants us to feel free after we repent (for we really are free then); the devil is a deceiver). The devil tempts us to cavalier pride before we sin and worrisome despair afterward, since pride and despair both separate us from God, and anything that separates us from God is the devil's friend and our enemy, while anything that brings us close to God is the devil's enemy and our friend.

Despair itself can be hopeful if it is honest.

That freedom is lost in Hell.

Presumption and despair are opposite deadly sins. We hear a lot about despair, and the need for hope; but what is presumption?

You know you've reached rock bottom when you're standing on the beach, looking to the horizon, and you don't notice you'r ankle-deep in dead fish.

made all our hopes and struggles in this world simply ridiculous for the fundamental reason that our precious human life, for all its joys, was blood-soaked, cruel, and empty, with only sorrow, fear, disease at its dark end, fading to nothingness. Staring back at him, I thought, Was this a society of human beings or some purgatory where folks was condemned to live their lives with a laughing killer loose amongst them like a wolf?

When one's life begins with a dead twin brother in a two-room shack with no electricity, rags in the cracks to keep out the winter cold, and a flower in a milk bottle for decoration in the summer, the world can seem angry and ungiving; a teat of sour milk.

Answers to all the problems that there are, Except the love that kills, the death that lives.

Fool, he told himself. He had been looking for Keith Rothwell in Robert Calvert's flat. But he wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere; he was just a slab of chilled meat waiting for a man with his collar on the wrong way around to chant a few meaningless words that might just ease the living's fear of death until the next time it touched too close to home for comfort.

Sometimes Barry plays the most depressing things." "Joy Division," said Banks. "He committed suicide. The lead singer." "I'm not bloody surprised. I'd commit suicide if I sounded like him.

In a world threatened by pain and death, stories of miracle workers are a psychological necessity, because the alternative is unmitigated horror and despair.

Rouged green lips part like a gangrened wound.