Quotes About Despair

Mi vida es un perfecto cementerio de esperanzas enterradas.

wounded prisoners. I wish I could hope, Miss Oliver—it would help, I suppose. But hope seems dead in me. I can't hope without some reason for it—and there is no reason. When Miss Oliver had gone to her own room and Rilla was lying on her bed in the moonlight, praying desperately for a little strength, Susan stepped in like a gaunt shadow and sat down beside her. Rilla, dear, do not you worry. Little Jem is not dead. Oh, how can you believe

The moment when a woman realises that she has nothing to live for--neither love, duty, purpose nor hope--holds for her the bitterness of death.

My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes." -Anne of green gables

Ä°ÅŸte, bir umut daha yok oldu. Hayat?m, gömülmüÅŸ umutlar?n muhteÅŸem mezarl???d?r.

Ma vie est un parfait cimetière d'espoirs ensevelis.

Evan Handler is a man who's looked into the abyss and laughed. His book, It's Only Temporary, made me laugh along with him. He covers love, lust, showbiz, triumph, and despair – and he manages to be both funny and inspiring about all of it. It's an important book that I think can help to spread goodness around the world. Something we desperately need.

Ride with an outlaw, die with him, he added. I admit it's a harsh code. But you rode on the other side long enough to know how it works. I'm sorry you crossed the line, though. Jake's momentary optimism had passed, and he felt tired and despairing. He would have liked a good bed in a whorehouse and a nice night's sleep. I never seen no line, Gus, he said. I was just trying to get to Kansas without getting scalped.

For a time Dish lost all sense of what life was about. He even lost the sense that he was a cowboy, the strongest sense he had to work with. He was just a fellow with a glass in his hand, whose life had suddenly turned to mud. The day before he had been a top hand, but what did that mean anymore?

Maude Jones, had killed herself with a shotgun one morning, leaving a note which merely said, 'Can't stand listening to this wind no more.

He had just begun to realize how hard it was to get from day to day if one felt hopeless.

The reason I'm so crazy is because nobody cares anything about me. I don't guess there's anybody I care much about, either. It's my own fault, though - I haven't had the guts to try and do anything about it.

Roscoe was appalled, for the clothes that were being destroyed were the only ones he owned. Then he remembered that he was going to be killed anyway and felt a little better.

He had know several men who blew their heads off, and he has pondered it much. It seemed to him it was probably because they could not take enough happiness just from the sky and the moon to carry them over the low feelings that came to all men.

The thought cross his mind that he ought to have married her and not gone rambling. If he had, he wouldn't be in such a fix. But he felt little fear; just an overpowering fatigue. Life had slipped out of line. It was unfair, it was too bad, but he couldn't find the energy to fight it any longer.

my fur is matted, my eyes refuse to refocus, my sthondat-begotten room is too small, my microwave heater heats all meat to the same temperature, and it is the wrong temperature, and I cannot get it fixed.

Se sentía tan sola y abandonada! Un chile en nogada olvidado en una charola después de un gran banquete no se sentiría peor que ella.

Aquí, el sexo no tiene nada que ver con el placer, sólo con el odio. Es una manera de humillar y desmoralizar al adversario.

She held the ring in her palm, looking down at it. When she turned it in her hand, she saw for the first time that there were letters engraved on the inner curve as well as the outside. She tilted it to the light. A vila mon Coeur, it said in French. A vila mon Coeur. Gardi li mo. She closed her eyes, curling her fingers tight around the ring, and bowed her head with a whimper of despair. Here is my heart. Guard it well.

Reality revived. She frowned and gazed ahead, feeling numb still after all these months, yet unable to believe it was true, wanting to lift her face to the leaden clouds and shriek and scream that it wasn't, that it could not be, that she would not allow it. That so much love and life could not just… vanish, into nothing, as if it had never been. That they must be alive and snug and happy somewhere, waiting for her.

In despair, he left that farm and came to Bone Gap when it was a huge expanse of empty fields, drawn here by the grass and the bees and the strange sensation that this was a magical place, that the bones of the world were little looser here, double-jointed, twisting back on themselves, leaving spaces one could slip into and hide.

Hope erodes slowly, over time, until you wake up one night at three o'clock in the morning and realize: I am not meant for that kind of thing.

Hope is a lying bitch.

Without hope, love dies and parts of you wither.