Quotes About Frustration

I used to go to work every day. Now I climb the walls.

Para la mayoría de las personas, la vida consiste en algo que no consiguen acabar.

impossible planning, strange priorities and a continual lack of information.

I feel as if part of my soul has been replaced by an artificial limb," he wrote. "It still doesn't do what I want it to do.

The tendency exists to look for a solution to [loneliness] by establishing very demanding and often exhausting friendships. […] the stresses on many students are so intense that they often have inexhaustible needs for intimacy, and clinging friendships. But this is often encouraging the unrealistic fantasy that the true, real, faithful friend is somewhere waiting, able to take away all the feelings of frustration.

Sometimes we feel trapped in our humanness. We experience keenly how things fall short of our expectations.

The lostness of the resentful "saint" is so hard to reach precisely because it is so closely wedded to the desire to be good and virtuous.

Living as he now lived was like reading a good book in a poor translation – a meagre entertainment for a young man who felt that he might have been an excellent linguist. He

There was an element of dull rage in his consciousness of things.

She had taken his measure; he was made incorrigibly to try, irredeemably to fail – to be, in short, eternally defeated and eternally unaware. He wouldn't rage he couldn't, for the citadel might, in that case, have been carried by his assault; he would only spend his life in walking round and round it, asking everyone he met how in the name of goodness one did get in.

She longed for opportunities, but these were not the opportunities she meant.

What could be more dreary than final interviews? One never said the things one wanted — one remembered them all an hour afterwards.

Do you know I sometimes think that I'm a man of genius, half finished? The genius has been left out, the faculty of expression is wanting; but the need for expression remains, and I spend my days groping for the latch of a closed door.

have you ever seen a genius out there looking for a job? it's the saddest thing in the world. no one will hire him. there is only one place where he is always welcome- at the bottom.

Great God! What have I turned into? What right have you people to clutter up my life, steal my time, probe my soul, suckle my thoughts, have me for your companion, confidant, and information bureau? What do you take me for? Am I an entertainer on salary, required every evening to play an intellectual farce under your stupid noses? Am I a slave, bought and paid for, to crawl on my belly in front of you idlers and lay at your feet all that I do and all that I know?

One can fight evil but against stupidity one is helpless.

When a situation gets so bad that no solution seems possible there is left only murder and suicide, or both. These failing, one becomes a buffoon.

Well, fuck a duck.

Life was a perpetual black fuck about a fixed pole of insomnia.

The whole world seemed to unroll like a pornographic film whose tragic theme is impotence.

I know we were conjugating the verb love like two maniacs trying to fuck through an iron gate.

In every room there is a mirror before which he stands attentively and chews his rage, and from the constant chewing, from the grumbling and mumbling and the muttering and cursing his jaws have gotten unhinged and they sag badly and, when he rubs his beard, pieces of his jaw crumble away and he's so disgusted with himself that he stamps on his own jaw, grinds it to bits with his big heels.

He wakes up cursing himself, or cursing the job, or cursing life.

I expected so much, so much of the world and it all fell short.