Quotes About Despair

Only a man who has felt ultimate despair is capable of feeling ultimate bliss.

Yes, I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness, sad as an eagle without wings, sad as a violin with only one string and that one broken, sad as a woman who is growing old. Sad, sad, sad.

Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.

Imagination at wit's end spreads its sad wings.

A poetess who had died young of cancer had said in one of her poems that for her, on sleepless nights, 'the night offers toads and black dogs and corpses of the drowned.

What portion in the world can the artist have, Who has awakened from the common dream, But dissipation and despair?

Nothing destroys a livable life more completely than unfounded hope

As their letters became increasingly melancholy, and as they - especially Stefan Zweig - increasingly refused to believe in any hope for themselves or for mankind, Eva was never included in that despair. This impunity is the same wishful thinking as when parents want to spare their children the difficulties they themselves have had to live through. Yet without that wishfulness, what are the parents doing but letting the melodrama of their own memories dictate the next generation's fate?

kUrApIkA iS nOw DrOwNinG iN An InDeScRiBaBlE emPtInEsS...

The thread of human hope is spun with the flax of sorrow.

I fear no farther hell than that I feel.

It is so easy to get sucked into the if-only game, and playing it is a short and slippery slide into despair.

No matter how lucky a person is, the moment he decides he wants to die, there's nothing that will keep him alive.

A parte de la vida misma, no veo otropa motivo para seguir viviendo.

She did not know it, but she was actually in despair at the poverty of human emotions. Was it not irrational that there was nothing to do except weep when ten people died, just as one wept for but a single person?

Ordinary life is even more horrible than war

To say human life had no meaning was the easy part. But Hanio was struck all over again by the huge amount of energy required to live a life filled with so much meaninglessness.

Most writers are perfectly normal in the head and just carry on like wild men; I behave normally but I'm sick inside.

Surely, I thought, we do not deserve even a little happiness. Or perhaps we had acquired the bad habit of regarding even a little happiness as a big favor, which we would have to repay.

He was a man who had already died once. There was no reason why he should feel any sense of responsibility or attachment to the world. To him, it was nothing more than a sheet of newspaper covered in the scribblings of cockroaches.

First of all, there was a miserable, despairing woman. Then there was a self-indulgent, heartless husband. And last, a hot-blooded, sympathetic young man. And with that the scenario was complete.

The greatest antidote for despair was the faith of a man and woman in each other.

Somehow the habit of eating had never appeared so ridiculous to me, and I rubbed my eyes. Presently I realized that my point of view came from having completely lost the desire to live.

What if fleshly entanglements were originally patterned on the erotic union of minds, and merely served as inevitable compensation born from despair?