Quotes About Anguish

Fiquei para ali a tentar descobrir que teria eu feito. apetecia-me chorar mas não saiu nada, era apenas uma espécie de náusea triste, uma tristeza brutal, quando é impossível sentirmo-nos pior. julgo que já vos terá acontecido. julgo que já terá acontecido a toda a gente uma ou outra vez. mas julgo que tem acontecido com muita frequência, demasiada frequência.

Well, the rain stopped but the pain was still there

The flame of urgent coupling burned hottest against the woman, no matter how romantic and high and heartsick the anguish of the man might be pitched in retrospect.

Why did you leave me?How could you do that to me?That note you left didn`t explain,didn`t tell me anything,just said you were going and not coming back and not to look for you.Not look for you!How could you think i wouldn`t?Did you really believe I´d let you go like that?You must have known i would go crazy,wondering where you were,what was happening to you...you must have known what you had done to me,vanishing like that. -Domenico Alessandros

Real tragedy is never resolved. It goes on hopelessly forever.

We are in the grip of what Kierkegaard called sickness unto death - the numbing of the soul by despair that leads to moral and physical debasement.

There's never any ebb in human misery.

Misery is manifold. The wretchedness of the earth is multiform.

At times, his devouring, unsated brain seemed to be beyond his governance: it was a frightful bird whose beak was in his heart, whose talons tore unceasingly at his bowels. And this unsleeping demon wheeled, plunged, revolved about an object, returning suddenly, after it had flown away, with victorious malice, leaving stripped, mean, and common all that he had clothed with wonder.

They all carried ghosts.

His business was dread. People came to him in dread, whispered in dread, wept and pleaded in dread. And dread was what he counseled.

Quando le cose morte tornano in vita, fanno sempre male.

Hell is being alone for all eternity. Alone, unloved, unloving.

Colpo ch'ad un sol noccia unqua non scende, Ma indiviso è il dolor d'ogni ferita. E spesso è l'un ferito, e l'altro langue: E versa l'alma quel, se questa il sangue.

Hate is a place where a man, who can't stand sadness, goes.

Staring in the darkness, trying to sleep. My body was aching with tiredness. My limbs were numb. My sightless eyes were crazed with light/ I was dying of oblivion, but it wouldn't come. I didn't think I've ever sleep again.

I wanted it to stop. I wanted everything to stop: the noise, the fear, the stink, the pain, the sickening ache in my belly. I didn't want to feel anything anymore. I didn't want to do anything. I didn't want to be here. I didn't want to be scared. I didn't want to be brave. I didn't want to be strong or weak or smart or stupid or precious or careless or dead... I didn't want to be anything.

His) sadness grew; it became a rock inside him, pulling him down. He carried the sadness everywhere, morning, noon, and night. It hurt to breathe.

A simmering fire burns our hearts away; We sink and my heart in depth of agony lies; As with the dawn the taper of the lamp Laps up the last drops of oil and dies.

The city was like a fish dying on hard pavement, hopelessly gasping for air.

If I had a drop of Pastor Palmer's blood in me I would drained it all out and die slowly."

A dusty thudding in his head made the scene before him beat like a pulse. His mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, he'd somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by secret police. He felt bad.

A dusty thudding in his head made the scene before him beat like a pulse. His mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, he'd somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by secret police. He felt bad.

ach! wüßtet ihr wie schwer es ist, wenn man gehängt ist und nicht sterben kann!!