Quotes About Anguish

The unrequited love of ones' only living offspring has its own particular slow acid burn

I longed for the day when her soul would be taken into the depths of hell

If we suddenly become successful almost effortlessly, then people are envious. It really annoys them that we didn't have to go through all kinds of anguish, pain, and suffering to get there. Their mind believes that such anguish is the cost that must be paid for success.

I longed for someone to scrape out every remnant of Nic from my brain and scrape out the knowledge of what was lost and scrape out the worry and not only my anguish but his and the burning inside like I might scrape out the seeds and juicy pulp of an overripe melon, leaving no trace of the rotted flesh.

I wanted to curl up into a fetal position and start sucking my thumb, let my tears and dripping saliva pool under me. Sorry. I tried living, tried being sentient. Can't do it. Can't live in the same universe with that.

There is nothing more you can do to hurt me now. You have already broken the man you knew, crucified every part of my humanity and left me with nothing except the ruins of what I once was. Why do you look away? Have you developed a conscience? What a burden it must be to you.

The beauty of the world...has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.

You know, there's something heartsick about parties like this. Look at us. We're all pretending to be smart, as if intelligence were the cure for our anguish.

Remember: ego can create misery, ego can create anguish, ego can create hate, ego can create jealousy. Ego can never become a vehicle for the divine, it can never become the passage for the beyond.

All art is a kind of confession, more or less oblique. All artists, if they are to survive, are forced, at last, to tell the whole story, to vomit the anguish up.

Manic depression is both artist and assassin. While it plays artist, it is on your side: generous, generating, connective and vital. But then the psychomachy begins, a battle between a God and a Devil for the possession of the soul, and the artist stealthily becomes assassin. In depression, the mind feeds on itself, self-cannibalizing. The soul-loss of depression is well attested, and many people in the anguish of depression know that familiar cry: 'I hate myself.

It is restful, tragedy, because one knows that there is no more lousy hope left. You know you're caught, caught at last like a rat with all the world on its back. And the only thing left to do is shout.

Every suicide is a solution to a problem.

Essa angústia, prolongando-se, arriscava-se a desagregar uma sociedade, assim como pode fender um indivíduo submetido a estresses repetidos. Podia provocar um fenômeno de inadaptação, uma regressão do pensamento e da afetividade, uma multiplicação das fobias; introduzir uma dose excessiva de negatividade e desespero. JEAN DELUMEAU: HISTÓRIA DO MEDO NO OCIDENTE

All that attacks is memory, all I suffer is regret.

My only hope lies in my despair.

Her body was tortured with something it could not let out.

Her screams were not only a sign of her inner brokenness, darkness, and anguish but also a cry for help. Difficult as it is for us to accept and come to terms with this idea, I believe that every act of violence is also a message that needs to be understood. Violence should not be answered just by greater violence but by real understanding. We must ask: where is the violence coming from? What is its meaning?

Karim s'adossa au mur, pris d'un vertige. Puis il scruta sa montre. Il avait bien tué deux heures. Mais ces heures l'avaient tué en retour.

Hell is wet and cold and black and lost. Her brain tap-dances and contracts,

The depth of her feeling surprises her, because how can she have any leftover grief available for other people, for Paola's murdered nephew? But there it is—an anguish that makes her feel hollow in the bones, despair for a beautiful boy Lydia never met.

to shed the skin of her anguish and leave it behind her in the Mexican dirt. But the moment of the crossing has already passed, and she didn't even realize it had happened. She

migrants are like blown-open grenades, telling their anguish compulsively to everyone they meet, dispensing their pain like shrapnel so they might one day wake to find their burdens have grown lighter.

The absolute absence of him feels like unmitigated terror.