Quotes About Despair

A nós, gente, só foi dada essa maldita capacidade, transformar amor em nada.

Sometimes the contradictions in their lives are so intense they seem manufactured for teaching life lessons, but it's hard to keep up with what you're supposed to be learning in that terrible moment between defiance and despair when all your energy is going into figuring out why it took so long to name the thing that's driving you crazy. At those moments, the best I can do is keep quiet and say a little prayer, which is what I did.

To eat bread without hope is still slowly to starve to death.

Tis a dream that I in sadness Here am bound, the scorn of fate;

My generation, faced as it grew with a choice between religious belief and existential despair, chose marijuana. Now we are in our Cabernet stage

One of my many horrors is to become the man with the frayed jacket and unfastened flies standing at the Co-op counter with egg on his shirt and more too because the mirror in the hall has given up the ghost. A shipwrecked man without an anchor in the world except in his own liquid thoughts where time has lost its sequence.

Hell is a city much like London—A populous and smoky city.

Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise!

Sorrow, terror, anguish, despair itself are often the chosen expressions of an approximation to the highest good. Our sympathy in tragic fiction depends on this principle; tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the pleasure which exists in pain. This is the source also of the melancholy which is inseparable from the sweetest melody. The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.

Oh, weep for Adonais—he is dead! Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep! Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep; For he is gone, where all things wise and fair Descend—oh, dream not that the amorous Deep Will yet restore him to the vital air; Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.

Hell is a city much like London.

Cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.

Hate, disdain, or fear, self-love or self-contempt, on human brows no more inscribed, as o'er the gate of hell, 'All hope abandon ye who enter here.

Great things can rise from fetid pits of wanton death and sorrow.

I know that the World is a terrible place, filled with wild animals and evil men and wicked woman.

They haven't made a drug that can touch this pain," Clarence said. "I feel like I'm made of pain.

It's too easy to be stupid, and too easy to wake up in the morning with the feeling you said something that had more to do with want and despair than need.

I have this rage that I can't explain. It's sad.

What baffles me is the comfort people find in the idea that somebody dealt this mess. Blind and meaningless chance seems to me so much more congenial - or at least less horrible. Prove to me that there is a God and I will really begin to despair.

There are mornings when it feels as if you rise up to the surface through a mud bath. With your feet stuck in a block of cement. When you know that you've expired in the night and have nothing to be happy about except the fact that at least you've already died so they can't transplant your lifeless organs.

Sorrow beyond dreams.

So. You want to die. No, I mean, you don't even want to go through the hassle of dying. You wish you didn't exist. If only you could disappear

Was this hell? To love like this, to grieve from fifteen feet, an uncrossable distance?

One who wants fellowship without solitude plunges into the void of words and feelings, and one who seeks solitude without fellowship perishes in the abyss of vanity, self-infatuation, and despair."4