Quotes About Despair

She came to feel that too much had been required of her. She would have her revenge. She would insist on an inner life regulated by despair.

Children always find ways to subvert while they're busy complying. This child's method of subversion? She would achieve success, but she would treat it like a concession she'd been forced to make. For unto whomsoever much is given, of her shall be much required. She came to feel that too much had been required of her. She would have her revenge. She would insist on an inner life regulated by despair.

mingled love and shame for our people, a mingled love and terror of white culture. And then (as if the result of these others), despair and a furious will to extinguish the self. My people's enemies have done this to me. But so have my own loved ones. My enemies took too much. My loved ones asked too much.

mingled love and shame for our people, a mingled love and terror of white culture. And then (as if the result of these others), despair and a furious will to extinguish the self. My people's enemies have done this to me. But so have my own loved ones. My enemies took too much. My loved ones asked too much. Let me say with care that the blame is not symmetrical: my enemies forced my loved ones to ask too much of me.

Looping. Some days are so dark I can't see anything but a miserable fog of number after number, word after word, clouds of verbs and nouns and none of them the ones that will make time go backward.

Maybe we're brokenhearted, but why isn't it rational to have a broken heart? It is utter shit out there, the things you can't control. The world is full of wrongs, and mess and distress and horror. Who can really be blamed for wanting to dig their way down and live in a hole, or disappear into a cave and never be around humans again? If all people do is hurt each other?

The world's ending, yeah. It's begun to bore her ...

Nenhum alívio há para o meu mal, e se me lembro das minhas alegrias maior é ainda o meu desespero.

Não sei o que sou, nem o que faço, nem o que quero; estou despedaçada por mil sentimentos contrários. Pode imaginar-se estado mais deplorável? Amo-te de tal maneira que nem ouso sequer desejar que venhas a ser perturbado por igual arrebatamento. Matar-me-ia ou, se não o fizesse, morreria desesperada, viesse a ter a certeza que nunca mais tinhas descanso, que tudo te era odioso, e a tua vida não era mais que perturbação, desespero e pranto.

Everyone is sick with his existence.

True happiness is everyone's good, not personal comfort when many, too many live in poverty and despair.

I stand and brush the tears from my eyes. The hen is gone, and the harp that was my mother's, and all of our gold; my husband is gone, too. The castle I shared with him is an empty shell now, robbed of everything that mattered—but I have one last use for

havde givet mig dyb modvilje mod mig selv: der var ikke nogen, der kunne elske mig, jeg kunne ikke få nogen til at synes om mig, jeg var kun til at smide væk, afvise. Derfor oplevede jeg alle opbrud, alle genvordigheder, al adskillelse som forstødelse. Bare jeg kom for sent til toget, begyndte tingen af røre på sig. Jeg var et mislykket menneske og derfor mislykkedes alt for mig,

there is rarely any rhyme or reason in suicides. They can be a cry for help gone wrong, or a punishment to those you're leaving behind, or one fateful twenty-minute window when you lose your bearings and can't find the reasons to go on.

Suicide is a permanent question.

In a great gasp, puts her head in her hands again and cries as if her throat were a cave, as if the howling winds came from her belly, she cries like a storm that will never end.

Hope transcends everything. It goes beyond all doubts. It silences fear. It quiets despair.

Revenge is barren of itself: it is the dreadful food it feeds on; its delight is murder, and its end is despair.

When he heard there was nothing to eat, he sat down and wept… "Why did I ever wake up!" he cried.

How long does it take for a broken spirit to kill a body that has food, water and shelter?

Wil ate without enthusiasm. His bacon tasted like nothing. Like a dead animal, fried. His eggs, aborted chickens.

Hate is a prolonged form of suicide.

Revenge could steal a man's life until there was nothing left but emptiness.

These evils I deserve, and more . . . . Justly, yet despair not of his final pardon, Whose ear is ever open, and his eye Gracious to re-admit the suppliant.