Quotes About Anguish

O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!

Wormwood, wormwood.

O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!

A plague of sighing and grief! it blows a man up like a bladder.

Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night!

A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyesI all alone beweep my outcast state,And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries.

They'll give him death by inches.

Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows.

Distill'dAlmost to jelly with the act of fear.

Lady you bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins, And there is such confusion in my powers.

The pain of severe depression is quite unimaginable to those who have not suffered it, and it kills in many instances because its anguish can no longer be borne. The prevention of many suicides will continue to be hindered until there is a general awareness of the nature of this pain.

It is hopelessness even more than pain that crushes the soul.

my brain had begun to endure its familiar siege: panic and dislocation, and a sense that my thought processes were being engulfed by a toxic and unnameable tide that obliterated any enjoyable response to the living world.

The pain of severe depression is quite unimaginable to those who have not suffered it, and it kills in many instances because its anguish can no longer be borne.

There he must, despite the anguish devouring his brain, present a face approximating the one that is associated with ordinary events and companionship. He must try to utter small talk, and be responsive to questions, and knowingly nod and frown and, God help him, even smile. But it is a fierce trial attempting to speak a few simple words.

Let's face it, writing is hell.

There was some people hurt far worst than I was in that hospital, let me tell you. Poor old boys with arms and legs and hands and who knows what else missing. Boys what had been shot in their stomach and chests and faces. At night the place sound like a torture chamber - them fellers be howling and crying and calling for their mamas.

Her belly ruptures full of parasites, Her eyes sink back in her skull Her butchered wrists, dangle From the edge of the bathtub Her children cuddle against her Desperate for love she cannot give

Mira, me duele aquí, entre el hígado, el corazón y el amor propio, ¿cómo no voy a pinche guacarear, si tengo putas náuseas en el alma?

Y en el juego angustioso de un espejo frente a otro cae mi voz y mi voz que madura y mi voz quemadura y mi bosque madura y mi voz quema dura

It was as if a tiny crack had opened somewhere in him and was growing, tearing him to pieces. If he had simply been angry, I might have found a way to calm him, but I had no idea how to put him back together once he came apart.

Death anxiety is the mother of all religions, which, in one way or another, attempt to temper the anguish of our finitude.

The world shrivels me day by day.