Quotes About Despair

I'm twenty-eight years old and I hate my life. I never have the time or the energy to work out how to change it. On Sundays I trail round a museum to keep warm, or lose myself in a library book, or fiddle with the wireless. But Monday's already looming. And always I've got this panicky feeling inside, because I know I'm getting nowhere, just keeping myself alive. Tacked

Despair is anger with no place to go.

In prison there's no bad, everything's worse. Worse bellyache, worse misery, worse sadness--the worst of the worst. Jailers and judges seem like people without reason, deranged. Compliance with rules and regulations which have nothing to do with reality turns them into madmen, at least they seem such to those not under the strange influence of the law.

There is no greater folly in the world than for a man to despair.

Those who believe that they believe in God, but without passion in their hearts, without anguish in mind, without uncertainty, without doubt, without an element of despair even in their consolation, believe in the God idea, not God himself.

en el fondo del abismo se encuentran la desesperación sentimental y volitiva y el escepticismo ra cional frente a frente, y se abrazan como hermanos. Y

Those who say they believe in God, and yet neither love nor fear him, do not in fact believe in Him but in those who have taught them that God exists. Those who believe that they believe inGod but without any passion in their heart, any anguish of mind, without uncertainty, without doubt, without an element of despair, even in their consolation, believe only in the God-idea, not in God.

Those who believe that they believe in God, but without passion in their hearts, without anguish in mind, without uncertainty, without doubt, without an element of despair even in their consolation, believe only in the God idea, not God Himself.

Warmth, warmth, more warmth! For we are dying of cold and not darkness. It is not the night that kills, but the frost.

Even the approach of death itself can serve to create harmony in consciousness, rather than despair.

bliss, mean, wretched, and mingled with wormwood

Verily, my life is falling apart and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

To my utter despair I have discovered, and discover every day anew, that there is in the masses no revolutionary idea or hope or passion.

And what remains for us to do, my friends? When life is such a dismal pit, it must be left behind without delay! My friends, let us all go and drown ourselves! Look out of the window, at the river! It beckons us to come!

Once upon a time there was a lady. She had no children, and no happiness either. And at first she cried for a long time, but then she became wicked...

I was ready to love the whole world, but no one understood me, and I learned to hate.

No one answered him and he said no more. When we reached the crossroads, he looked hopefully at us as if we might relent and say good-bye. But we did not relent and as I glanced back at him standing alone in the middle of the crossing, he looked as if the world itself was slung around his neck. (3.48)

He felt an overwhelming sense of brokenness in the people. The country had been under the colonial government for over two decades, and no one could see an end in sight. It felt like everyone had given up.

Yoseb grew quiet, wanting what he saw in front of him not to be true. "Isak-ah, why did I bring you to this hell? I was so lonesome for you. I was wrong, you know, to bring you

Her worst terrors came during the night. She could believe in herself in daylight, but alone in the pitch-blackness of the cellar she doubted her very existence. However hard she strained to see the walls and the floor, even her hand before her face, there was only darkness. And the darkness was more alive than she was.

Two plus three is five, check the email, one plus seven is, check the email, eight, check the email, which comes to a total of, who the hell am I anyway, eighty five. This is how he dismembers his day, in the most painful way, moment by moment. A bigger man would just shoot it, put it out of its misery.

It had not occurred to me that it would get this bad, that indignity would dance upon bloodshed.

She had not even put on her clothes; she was still wearing the robe. And she was yelling "Potato" so desperately that she was forgetting to stick her head out the window, she was yelling into the interior of the car uselessly, as if Potato were within her, like God.

Art has no meaning if it's not an escape. If it's not born of a prisoner's despair. I can't respect any art that comforts and relieves, those novels and music and paintings designed to make your prison more bearable.