Quotes About Frustration

Neîmplinirea unui om este o sinucidere prin etape.

What they ask you for is actions, proofs, works, and all you can produce are transformed tears.

Dac? mi-aÅŸ asculta întâia pornire, toat? ziua aÅŸ scrie scrisori cu injurii ÅŸi scrisori de adio.

DorinÅ£a nesatisf?cut? este suferin??; ea nu-i pl?cere decât în timpul satisfacerii; ÅŸi, odat? satisf?cut?, este decepÅ£ie.

Am abuzat de cuvîhtul dezgust. Dar ce alt termen s? aleg pentru a indica o stare în care exasperarea e neîncetattemperat? de plictiseal?, iar plictiseala de exasperare ?

The artist abandoning his poem, exasperated by the indigence of words, prefigures the confusion of the mind discontented within the context of the existent. Incapacity to organize the elements—as stripped of meaning and savor as the words which express them—leads to the revelation of the void. Thus the rhymer withdraws into silence or into impenetrable artifices.

Cand esti nemultumit din nastere,tuni si fulgeri impotriva a tot,bun sau rau,nu ca sa indrepti ceva,ci ca sa-ti cheltui rezerva zilnica de indignare.

Por qué habríamos de hacer algo? ¿Por qué? Creo que toda acción es fundamentalmente inútil y que el hombre ha frustrado su destino, que era el de no hacer nada. Creo que el único momento justo en la historia es el periodo antiguo de la India, en el que se hacía una vida contemplativa, en el que se contentaban con mirar las cosas sin ocuparse nunca de ellas.

A work is finished when we can no longer improve it, though we know it to be inadequate and incomplete. We are so overtaxed by it that we no longer have the power to add a single comma, however indispensable. What determines the degree to which a work is done is not a requirement of art or of truth, it is exhaustion and, even more, disgust.

Suntem un popor prea bun, prea cumsecade È™i prea aÈ™ezat. Nu pot iubi decât o Românie în delir.

If only I could reach the level of the man I would have liked to be! But some power, increasing year by year, draws me down.

Getting up with my head full of plans, I would be working, I was sure of it, all morning long. No sooner had I sat down at my desk than the odious, vile, and persuasive refrain: "What do you expect of this world?" stopped me short. And I returned, as usual, to my bed with the hope of finding some answer, of going back to sleep.

An existence constantly transfigured by failure.

No longer wanting to be a man..., dreaming of another form of failure.

There is no limit-disappointment.

When there is no other aim but to outstrip constantly the point arrived at, how painful to be thrown back!...Since imagination is hungry for novelty, and ungoverned, it gropes at random

want to scream, and sometimes I do. On occasion, I scream as loudly as I can

and he has never been anything worse to me than incredibly, cringingly annoying. I married the wrong man, with an inkling at the time that that was what I was doing, and so it is my fault and I am stuck.

This, once almost an endearing habit, is now an affectation that drives me to the brink of homicide.

I'm tired of being set upon by crazed Christians one minute and unbridled libertines the next. Girls, I'm going camping.

I edit with a pen, I write on a computer. I've always had trouble with pencils because they get dull so quickly, or they just break, and then there's that ­awful shuddery feeling when you're trying to write with a couple of scraps of wood poking out.

Life doesn't work that way. You can do everything perfectly. Do everything you think you're supposed to be doing. Fulfill every expectation that other people may have. And you still won't get the results you think you deserve. Life is crazy and maddening and often makes no sense.

At the rate things are going here, all of Africa will be free before we can get a lousy cup of coffee.

To smash something is the ghetto's chronic need.