Quotes About Frustration

I get an especially acute case of agita at the thought of a mortar and pestle.

I liked film-making, but the most difficult thing was the editing. I found it tormentingly difficult.

Any athlete will tell you that it's the most difficult thing in the world being injured.

There are a few things that make me angry. Mostly things not going my way.

I really didn't feel that my motion picture career was going the way I wanted it to go.

For writing stand-up, I have to have a little bit of anger and frustration to be motivated to do it. Stand-up, for me, comes from kind of a hostile engine.

When you want something desperately and you lose it, no matter how hard you try to get yourself motivated, it's always difficult.

I'm motivated by a bottomless well of anger. It's a joke, but I don't think I don't mean it.

When you're not winning in your last couple of years, it gets frustrating because where's your motivation?

Disney and I were a bad mix. For a year I was probably more depressed than I have ever been in my life. I worked for a great animator, Glenn Kean. He was nice, he was good to me, he's a really strong animator and he helped me. But he also kind of tortured me because I got all the cute fox scenes to draw, and I couldn't draw all those four-legged Disney foxes. I just couldn't do it. I couldn't even fake the Disney style. Mine looked like road kills.

He felt crazy sometimes. Real depravity. Late at night an electric sizzle came into his blood, a tight pumped-up killing rage, and he couldn't keep it in and he couldn't let it out. He wanted to hurt things. Grab a knife and start cutting and slashing and never stop. All those years. Climbing like a son of a bitch, clawing his way up inch by fucking inch, and then it all came crashing down at once.

And when a mind is too deficient in understanding, the resulting gap is often filled with resentment. —

The noise of horns and radios and shouted insults was part of the soundtrack of the capital (Hard-boiled P.I. Casta, on Rome, Italy)

It was like fishing a swamp, where you feel the tug of something that at first seems promising and then resistant and finally hopeless as you realize that you've snagged the bottom, that you have the whole planet on the other end of your line.

Diplomatic exchange combined the worst aspects of explaining things to a toddler and talking with a mother-in-law. It was dull, it was tedious, it was exasperating, and it was necessary.

I'm tired of all this. What ever happened to honesty, Arnie? What ever happened to telling the goddamned truth? It's all a fucking game here, and the object of the game isn't to do the right thing, the object of the game is to stay here. It's not supposed to be that way!

i am the most even-tempered man i know,' clark protested. 'right, no one's ever lived long enough for you to get really mad. they're dead by the time you're mildly annoyed.

It's hard to drift off into nowhereland when your arousal hormones are circulating wildly as a result of your rage at mobile-phone users. Fantasies of hurling their mobile phones from the train window tend to disturb the search for inner calm.

Suddenly, she was not pretty at all; she looked like a thousand-year-old teenager who wanted something she knew she couldn't have.

Malcolm turned round quite slowly. He had had a bad day, but not so bad that he could face talking badgers - talking dead badgers - with equanimity.

Wouldn't it be wonderful, wouldn't it be absolutely fucking grand if Life somehow contrived to let five minutes go by without dumping some new and incrementally horrible load of shit on my head from a great height?

No matter what she was doing-baking cookies, walking around the lake on a beautiful day, making love to her husband-she felt rushed and jittery, as if the last few grains of sand were at that very moment sliding through the narrow waist of an hourglass. Any unforeseen occurrence-road construction, an inexperienced cashier, a missing set of keys-could plunge her into a mood of frantic despair that could poison an entire day.

Actually, he hadn't just complained; she'd come home from school one afternoon and found him stabbing his paperback edition with a steak knife, the tip of the blade penetrating the cover and sinking far enough down into the early chapters that he sometimes had trouble pulling it out. When she asked him what he was doing, he explained in a calm and serious voice that he was trying to kill the book before it killed him.

She knew exactly what was weighing him down: that helpless feeling that you were wasting your precious youth and it was your own damn fault.