Quotes About Despair

When he was gone, would I be like Achilles, wailing over his lost lover Patroclus? I tried to picture myself running up and down the beaches, tearing at my hair, cradling some scrap of old tunic he had left behind. Crying for the loss of half my soul.

There was a silence. Then Chiron said, "When I brought you both here, I had not decided yet what I would do. Thetis sees many faults, some that are and some that are not." His voice was unreadable again. Hope and despair flared and died in me by turns.

Doua umbre se intind in bezna una spre cealalta, in amurgul ce s-a lasat greu, fara speranta. Cand li se intalnesc mainile, se revarsa potop de lumina, ca o suta de urne de aur revarsandu-se din soare.

It was quite possible that she had lost the capacity to love and care anymore and that this is how she was going to be for the rest of her life.

When the hauteur slipped from her face, what would I see? Despair, I imagine. Not the passive, withdrawn despair that keeps itself in silence but the raging kind that incinerates all before it.

Eventually I confess to a friend some details about my weeping—its intensity, its frequency. She says (kindly) that she thinks we sometimes weep in front of a mirror not to inflame self-pity, but because we want to feel witnessed in our despair.

Eventually I confess to a friend some details about my weeping—its intensity, its frequency. She says that she thinks we sometimes weep in front of a mirror not to inflame self-pity, but because we want to feel witnessed in our despair. (Can a reflection be a witness?)

We sometimes weep in front of a mirror not to inflame self-pity, but because we want to feel witnessed in our despair.

We sometimes weep in front of the mirror not to inflame self-pity, but because we want to feel witnessed in our despair.

If a color could deliver hope, does it follow that it could also bring despair?

On April 20, 1970, the poet Paul Celan left his home in Paris, walked to a bridge over the River Seine, and jumped to his death. He left a biography of Hölderlin open on his desk, with the following words underlined: "Sometimes this genius goes dark and sinks down into the bitter well of his heart." The sentence does not end there. Celan chose not to underline the rest: "but mostly his apocalyptic star glitters wondrously.

One thing they don't tell you bout the blues when you got 'em, you keep on fallin' 'cause there ain't no bottom," sings Emmylou Harris, and she may be right. Perhaps it would help to be told that there is no bottom, save, as they say, wherever and whenever you stop digging.

Sitting in my office before teaching a class on prosody, trying not to think about you, about my having lost you. But how can it be? How can it be? Was I too blue for you. Was I too blue. I look down at my lecture notes: Heártbréak is a spondee. Then I lay my head down on the desk and start to weep.—Why doesn't this help?

She thinks, This cannot happen, it cannot, how will we live, what will we do, how can Judith bear it, what will I tell people, how can we continue, what should I have done, where is my husband, what will he say, how could I have saved him, why didn't I save him, why didn't I realise that it was he who was in danger? And then, the focus narrows, and she thinks: He is dead, he is dead, he is dead.

Ahora esa persona se ha perdido para siempre. Va a la deriva, no reconoce su propia vida. Está desamarrada, extraviada. Es una persona que llora si no encuentra un zapato, si cuece la sopa más de lo debido o tropieza con un cacharro. Las cosas pequeñas la deshacen. Ya no hay certezas, nada es seguro.

She sees the cloud above him grow darker, gather its horrible rank strength. She wants to reach across the table then, to lay her hand on his arm. She wants to say, I am here. But what if her words are not enough? What if she is not enough of a salve for his nameless pain? For the first

Is it possible for a woman to be so unsettled in spirit that a child will have no hope of taking root within her?

There is, she is starting to see, nothing more she can do. She can stay beside him, comfort him as best she can, but this pestilence is too great, too strong, too vicious. It is an enemy too powerful for her. It has wreathed and tightened its tendrils about her son, and is refusing to surrender him.

I just looked at her, feeling utterly empty. I didn't know what I was supposed to say to her. My life is in that bed. Please let me stay.

Blues are the songs of despair, but gospel songs are the songs of hope.

We suffer from an incurable malady: Hope.

we are seized by the urge to weep For one who died for nothing.

Da qualche parte Didi si putrefaceva e moriva in eterno. Giorno dopo giorno. Mese dopo mese. Anno dopo anno.

Philip Murdstone sat considering the phrase 'depths of despair'. Its plural implied that there were, even now, levels of it he had yet to experience.