Quotes About Despair

I appear at times merry and in good heart, talk, too, before others quite reasonably, and it looks as if I felt, too, God knows how well within my skin. Yet the soul maintains its deathly sleep and the heart bleeds from a thousand wounds.

I appear at times merry and in good heart, talk, too,before others quite reasonably, and it looks as tho I felt, too, God knows how well within my skin. Yet the soul maintains its deathly sleep and the heart bleeds from a thousand wounds.

The suicide hour of cold coffee and alien voices on the radio.

Molly wasn't hope then, of course, and i can't help hating her for not being there.

Down Where the Drunkards Roll." "How

There was a ring at the door. He did not answer. They would go away, and he would be alone again with his grief, his impotent anger, and his undusted possessions.

It was a tragic Westside slum inhabited by poverty-mauled blacks.

In the darkness, even love will become hate

Jay couldn't fill that empty space with anything. Nothing brought him joy.

The dead man looked disconsolate. Reasonably so, in the circumstances, Charlie thought.

In the desert I saw a creature, naked, bestial, Who, squatting upon the ground, Held his heart in his hands, And ate of it. I said, "Is it good, friend?" "It is bitter-bitter," he answered; "But I like it "Because it is bitter, `And because it is my heart." Stephen Crane, "The Black Riders and Other Lines

Melancholia i smutek s? ju? pocz?tkiem zw?tpienia; zw?tpienie jest pocz?tkiem rozpaczy; rozpacz jest okrutnym pocz?tkiem szeregu stopni prowadz?cych ku z?u.

What is the worst thing you've done for love? Exist! I hate existing, I wish I didn't exist, but I do everyday because allegedly, there is someone out there on earth who's 'perfect' for me. Yeah, I don't believe any of that. What if there's no one? Have we ever thought about that? What if we were just destined to be alone forever?

Las Vegas is a very strange place. It's a place of broken dreams.

When Pelitas had died, he had wept, but there were no more tears in him for the others. He had no more lies for them, no more speeches. The grand lie had been that there was anything to fight for at all.

The entire range of human experience is present in a church choir, including, but not restricted to jealousy, revenge, horror, pride, incompetence (the tenors have never been on the right note in the entire history of church choirs, and the basses have never been on the right page), wrath, lust and existential despair.

It is precisely the sort of thing I am always trying to do in my writing – to present my unhappy reader with a wide-ranged chaos – of actions and reactions, thoughts, memories and feelings – in the vain hope that at the end he will see that the whole thing represents only one moment, one feeling, one person. A raging, trumpeting jungle of associations, and then I announce at the end of it, with a gesture of despair, 'This is I!

The Windows In these dark rooms where I pass such listless days, I wander up and down looking for the windows – when a window opens there will be some relief. But there are no windows, or at least I cannot find them. And perhaps it's just as well. Perhaps the light would prove another torment. Who knows what new things it would reveal?

Walls Without reflection, without mercy, without shame, they built strong walls and high, and compassed me about. And now I sit here and consider and despair. My brain is worn with meditating on my fate: I had outside so many things to terminate. Oh! why when they were building did I not beware! But never a sound of building, never an echo came. Out of the world, insensibly, they shut me out.

The world was a terrible place, cruel, pitiless, dark as a bad dream. Not a good place to live. Only in books could you find pity, comfort, happiness - and love. Books loved anyone who opened them, they gave you security and friendship and didn't ask anything in return; they never went away, never, not even when you treated them badly.

The world was a terrible place, cruel, pitiless, dark as a bad dream. Not a good place to live. Only in books could you find pity, comfort, happiness - and love. Books loved anyone who opened them, they gave you security and friendship and didn't ask anything in return; they never went away, never, not even when you treated them badly.

He looked up at the heavy smoke palls over the city and repeated softly to himself, "It's all for nothing. All for nothing."*

It isn't dying I'm afraid of, it isn't that at all; I know what it is to die, I've died already. It is the endless obliteration, the knowledge that there will never be anything else. That's what I can't stand, to try so hard and to end in nothing. You know what I mean, don't you? ... I really loved to write.

I hate the world. Everything comes into it so clean and goes out so dirty. (from COVER CHARGE - currently not listed)