Quotes About Despair

My life is a Stephen King novel," she whispered. "Everything gets worse. And worse. And worse. When it finally can't get any worse, everybody dies.

Evil, true evil, in her—and, more scientifically, her psychiatrist sister's—belief, fed on despair, the kind that suffocates every glimmer of light and life beneath a cold so intense it becomes darkness.

Prison would kill him. Not neatly or cleanly or quickly, It would kill him with ten thousand days of gray, each taking a bite of his sanity until all that remained was huddled terror with the body of a man wrapped around it.

The post office, or any world of work, is only one institutionalised system of control that is designed to beat people, to condition them into accepting that humiliation and failure is the norm. ... Far from being hopeless, though, or despairing, we're shown that in resisting lies potential for growth.

As a shield against despair she had decided early on to live with the expectation of doom, an inspired tactic, because, by expecting it, it never fully arrived.

It's hard to live on hope. Living on hope you get thin and tired. Hope pares you away from the inside. You're all the time living in the future. In the future things will be better, you hope, and you'll feel better and you won't wake up feeling like someone has been taking the life out of you drip by drip while you slept.

I feel just, you know, defeated.

It's like there are seven candles lit in my stomach. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Seven candles burning and smoking - lit - seven flames of doubt, fear, sorrow, pain, waste, hopelessness, despair. They turn my insides black with soot and ash. There is something at the back of my eyes - a pressure building, building, building - hot like the flames of seven candles, which no amount of breath can extinguish.

It's like there are seven candles lit in my stomach. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Seven candles burning and smoking - lit - seven flames of doubt, fear, sorrow, pain, waste, hopelessness, despair. They turn my insides black with soot and ash.

They say suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Well, the problem of being human isn't really so temporary and sometimes a permanent solution seems like the best possible way out.

Nothing about me ever seemed good enough. And there was this sadness inside me - this hopelessness. Focusing on my physical appearance was at least easier than trying to address the internal shit. I could control the external - at least, to a point. I could buy different clothes, or cut my hair, or whatever. The pit opening up inside me was too frightening to even look at.

It's what the loss uncovers in you that brings on despair, not the loss itself.

Depression is a grim and blinding curse: you can't see outside it. You can't see hope, or love, or how spring will follow winter.

the public knew, he thought, his feet in their heavy boots sliding among the syringes, if they knew how some people lived and how they died.

They're all dead. They're all dead and they live in holes like this one. And I'm in one too. Everybody. The world's a place full of holes with dead people in them. And the moon's a ball all full of holes too and inside them there are other dead people.

A son can bear with equanimity the loss of his father, but the loss of his inheritance may drive him to despair.

The situation worsened when they arrived at Cadiz, because there was nothing for them there.

The enemy of our country is poverty and hopelessness.

Eventually sinking into despair, [Heinrich von Kleist] shot himself in 1811 as part of a suicide pact made with a woman suffering from incurable cancer.

When life is awful, it's a terrible thing to live without hope. There's nothing worse than to believe that nothing will ever change – that every day will continue to be like every other.

There are no friends, there is no safety net, all the money is used up. The days creep by like beetles, slow and beyond morality. There is no escape. Shame and nightmares. The horror of other people, having to function among them when you are broken and unfixable. There is no escape.

Hamlet got a gun now.

Mummy was a swine: a scum-cunted, likkered-up, brain-sick swine. She was lazy and slothful and dirty and belligerent and altogether evil. Ma was a soak - a drunk - a piss-eyed hell-bag with a taste for the homebrew.

Hope is optimism with a broken heart.