Quotes About Frustration

He received in essence the same answer from every other shop he tried. No one recognized his description of Hester, and none of them had sold digitalis to any member of the Farraline household, or indeed to anyone not known to them personally. He pursued the other sources of information, the public house, the street peddlers and crossing sweepers, the errand and delivery boys and the news vendors, but all he learned was very general gossip that seemed to serve no purpose.

Sometimes those who cannot create enjoy the power to destroy," Vespasia went on. "It is all they have.

I've watched two-year-old humans with interest for centuries. They're miserable. They rush about, fall down, and scream almost constantly. They hate being human! They know already that it's some sort of dirty trick.

A large American automobile came crawling close to us, and we could hear from behind its thick windows the deep bass of the radio, and the nasty words of a hateful song.It seemed like so much of modern music, a din to drive human beings mad.

and then he glanced at the ceiling and, making a fist with his right hand, he gasped, Damn you... God! Damn you!

Once again, I had failed to keep the secret. Even in Antioch long ago, I had failed to keep the secret. Would I always fail to keep the secret? Was this not my fate?

His throat felt like marble. She could not snap the bones! But he could not throw her off, either, no matter how hard he tried.

That was the most maddening and annoying aspect of old age. If you could add two and two people clapped for you! They clapped. It was true. It was pathetic.

He had no idea what Jilly Lovitz would appreciate or not. And why the hell did her name have so many fucking L's in it? She'd probably done it on purpose, just to annoy him.

What have you done with Hetty? he demanded. Listened to her incessant prattle, complaints, tears, demands, artless conversation and recriminations for more than twenty-four hours. You will be pleased to know I didn't touch her—if I had I would have throttled her. Take her away, if you please. I'd rather spend the rest of my life a pauper than have to spend even another day with the divine Miss Chippie.

He could almost hear her grind her teeth, and his mood lightened. Astonishing how entertaining it was to annoy his unwanted confederate.

Sometimes when he was dealing with people, he felt like he was operating one of those claw machines on a boardwalk, those shovel things where you tried to scoop up a prize but the controls were too unwieldy and you worked at too great a remove.

Sometimes she felt like a tiny gnat, whirring around her family's edges

It seemed jobs kept disappointing him, as did business partners and girlfriends and entire geographical regions.

I didn't quite understand about last night," he said. "What was that? Can we talk about it?" His voice was meek but pushy, Willa thought, and she didn't feel like answering him, but she knew he would keep on pressing her until she did. So she shrugged again and said, "I was just overtired, I guess.

To him it was a cinch, figuring out directions, but Willa seemed to be lacking that particular part of her brain. And the GPS on her phone was no help, because it didn't let her see more than two inches ahead; and anyhow she hated driving, and she especially hated driving

It's everything. I hate the heat; I hate the humidity; the accent is atrocious…I don't know what we're doing here." "Well, sweetheart? We're just helping Denise for a few days." "We don't even know Denise!

Something was wrong with him. Something was wrong with all of her children. They were so frustrating—attractive, likable people, the three of them, but closed off from her in some perverse way that she couldn't quite put her finger on. And

Sometimes, after an especially trying day, she felt an urge to burn everything she had worn.

What to feed her is a constant conundrum. Nothing satisfies. She rolls her eyes, sighs ostentatiously, flounces from the room.

On plenty of days the writer can write three or four pages, and on plenty of other days he concludes he must throw them away.

I couldn't unpeach the peaches.

Being an author sucks, doesn't it? It's like telling a joke and nobody laughs for two years.

I wonder if she ever wants to trade lives with me, if only for the chance to punch something.