Quotes About Frustration

Either I shall find it, or I shall not find it. I examine my note-case. I look in all my pockets. These are the things that forever interrupt the process upon which I am eternally engaged of finding some perfect phrase that fits this moment exactly.

Modern women are frustrated and angry, their experience is limited; modern men are obsessed with the letter "I"; their writing is full of self-conscious indecency, self-conscious virility. It is essentially sterile.

her soul rusted with that grievance sticking in it

Then beneath the colour [of the paint] was the shape. She could see it all so clearly, so commandingly, when she looked: it was when she took her brush in hand that the whole thing changed. It was in that moment's flight between the picture and her canvas that the demons set on her who often brought her to the verge of tears and made this passage from conception to work as dreadful as any down a dark passage for a child.

Must a kettle boil?

Es esta una de las torturas y desgracias de la vida: cuando son incapaces nuestros amigos de terminar sus cuentos.

She will write in a rage where she should write calmly. She will write foolishly where she should write wisely. She will write of herself where she should write of her characters. She is at war with her lot. How could she help but die young, cramped and thwarted?

Virtually all the characters in the novel have failed to live up to their early dreams and ambitions.

That man, she thought, her anger rising in her, never gave; that man took.

He ran his mind over the things they had said, the random, unnecessary things which had eddied round and round and used up all the time, and drawn them so close together and flung them so far apart and left him in the end unsatisfied, ignorant still of what she felt and of what she was like. What was the use of talking, talking, merely talking?

Mr. Denham cursed himself very sharply for having exchanged the freedom of the street for this sophisticated drawing-room

It was a miserable machine, an inefficient machine, she thought, the human apparatus for painting or feeling; it always broke down at the critical moment.

Nothing happens here except that I write and write, and curse and burn.

And he absolutely had to find her at once to tell her that he adored her, but the large audience before him separated him from the door, and the notes reaching him through a succession of hands said that she was not available; that she was inaugurating a fire; that she had married an american businessman; that she had become a character in a novel; that she was dead.

His life was a constant war with insensate objects that fell apart, or attacked him, or refused to function, or viciously got themselves lost as soon as they entered the sphere of his existence.

and I switched to English literature, where so many frustrated poets end as pipe-smoking teachers in tweeds.

He was powerless because he had no precise desire, and this tortured him because he was vainly seeking something to desire.

This daily headache in the opaque air of this tombal jail is disturbing, but I must persevere. Have written more than a hundred pages and not got anywhere yet. My Calender is getting confused. That must have been around August 15, 1947. Don't think I can go on. Heart, head--everything. Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita. Repeat til page is full, printer.

Paduk and all the rest wrote on steadily, but Krug's failure was complete, a baffling and hideous disaster, for he had been busy becoming an elderly man instead of learning the simple but now unobtainable passages which they, mere boys, had memorized.

I simply cannot get used to the nightly betrayal of reason, humanity, genius.

Oh, aprieto el gatillo, sin duda, pero las balas caen blandamente al suelo, una tras otra, desde el tímido cañón. En esos sueños, mi única preocupación es ocultar el fracaso a mi enemigo, que se aburre cada vez más.

how long did I think we were going to live in stuffy cabins, doing filthy things together and never behaving like ordinary people

do not know why I was so tormented by your betrayals, rather I myself know why, but I do not know the words I must choose to make you understand why I was so tormented. Such words do not come in the small size that fits your everyday needs.

Oh, to shout it so that all of you believe me at last, you cruel, smug people...