Quotes About Frustration

Maldita sea, parecía imposible que perdiéramos, pero perdimos.

Oftentimes in those roominghouses and cheap apartments there was nothing to do when you were broke and starving and down to the last bottle. There was nothing to do but listen to those wild arguments. It made you realize that you weren't the only one who was more than discouraged with the world, you weren't the only one moving toward madness.

We went up the Harbor freeway north and then we cut onto the San Diego freeway north. I hated the San Diego freeway. It always jammed. Then I noticed a slight rain beginning to fall. That's it, I said, it's beginning to rain. All the cars were going to stop. California drivers didn't know how to drive in the rain.

There's no point in writing my kind of stuff, when they're printing that kind of stuff. So I gave up and started drinking.

It wasn't ENOUGH that I was working beside him like an idiot; it wasn't enough for him that I was wasting the few good hours left in my life—no, he also wanted me to share his own mind-soul, to sniff his dirty stockings, to chew on his angers and hates with him. I was not PAID for that, the fucker. And that's what killed you on the job—not the actual physical work but being closed in with the dead. I

you son of a bitch, she said, I am trying to build a meaningful relationship. you can't build it with a hammer, he said.

hell is a closed door when you're starving for your goddamned art but sometimes you feel at least like having a peek through the keyhole. young or old, good or bad, I don't think anything dies as slow and as hard as a writer.

Después de todo ¿por qué era necesario amar a un ser humano? Nunca duraba mucho. Había demasiadas diferencias entre cada individuo, y lo que empezaba siendo amor acababa siempre en guerra despiadada

Czekaj?c zabi?em 4 muchy. Cholera, ?mier? czai si? wsz?dzie.

There wasn't even resignation on my part, only disgust, a disgust that this had happened to me, and a disgust with the doctors who couldn't do anything about it. They were helpless and I was helpless, the only difference being that I was the victim.

He visto últimamente demasiados intelectuales. Estoy harto ya de esos genios insignes que tienen que soltar diamantes cada vez que abren la boca. Estoy harto de luchar por cada espacio de aire libre para la mente. Por eso estuve apartado de todos tanto tiempo, y ahora, al volver a ver a la gente, descubro que debo volver a mi cueva, hay otras cosas además de la mente: hay insectos, y palmeras y pimenteros de mesa, y yo tendré un pimentero de mesa en mi cueva, para reírme.

just waiting is the worst. nothing worse than waiting just waiting. always hated to wait. what's there about waiting that's so intolerable? —like you're waiting for me to finish this poem and I don't know exactly how so I won't. —so, if you happen to read this in a magazine or a book just rip the page out tear it up and that's the graceful way to end this poem once and for all.

How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?

not writing is not good but trying to write when you can't is worse.

What a weary time those years were—to have the desire and the need to live but not the ability.

The lines on the page were pulled tight, like a man screaming, but not "Joe, where are you?" More like Joe, where is anything?

listen, he said, you ever seen a bunch of crabs in a bucket? no, I told him. well, what happens is that now and then one crab will climb up on top of the others and begin to climb toward the top of the bucket, then, just as he's about to escape another crab grabs him and pulls him back down. really? I asked. really, he said, and this job is just like that, none of the others want anybody to get out of here. that's just the way it is

I walked around the library looking for books. I pulled them off the shelves, one by one. But they were all tricks. They were very dull. There were pages and pages of words that didn't say anything. Or if they did say something they took too long to say it and by the time they said it you already were too tired to have it matter at all.

My spoon was bent so that if I wanted to eat I had to pick the spoon up with my right hand. If I picked it up with my left hand, the spoon bent away from my mouth. I wanted to pick the spoon up with my left hand.

Mi sembra di essere nato storto. Non capisco se non trovo più quello che voglio o se rendo le mie voglie talmente elaborate da rendermi impossibile soddisfarle. Insomma, una specie di alibi del cazzo.

Que tempos penosos foram aqueles anos - ter o desejo e a necessidade de viver, mas não a habilidade.

But somehow, I've got to get out, and make sure that almost all humanity is still a large piece of crap.

I remember when I was a kid I read this book by Hemingway. A guy climbed into bed with this woman again and again and he couldn't do it although he loved the woman and she loved him. My god, I thought, what a great book. All these centuries and nobody has written about this aspect of the thing. I thought the guy was just too blissfully dumb-ass to do it. Later on I read in the book that he'd had his genitals shot off in the war. What a let-down.

For a man who had wanted to be happy he looked like a man who had lost two pawns in the early rounds of a chess match without gaining an advantage.