Quotes About Anguish

Loneliness is the worst of all tortures, the worst of all sufferings.

The circumstances of my life are paralyzing.

My life has been nothing but a failure.

Life is, of course, terrible.

I'm dying and all I hear are insults!

Let's get really fucked up and full of sentimental despair and then finally decide life, despite every heartbreak and anguished cry, is worth each pulse and breath

This is no place for anyone with a heart.

In the English language there are orphans and widows, but there is no word for the parents who loses a child.

The loved idea of Angelo still rose upon my fancy, and its powers of captivation, heightened by absence, and, perhaps even by despair, pursued me with incessant grief. I concealed in silence the anguish that preyed upon my heart, and resigned myself a willing victim

Forgive me that I felt forsaken, That grief and angst was all I knew. Forgive me that I kept mistaking Too many other men for you.

If I can't have love, if I can't find peace, give me a bitter glory.

All my contemporaries— hundred-and-fivers or convicts— will tell you how we lived in barely sentient fear, raising children for the executioner, prison, or the torture chamber.

Forgive me that I felt forsaken, That grief and angst were all I knew. Forgive me that I kept mistaking Too many other men for you.

She meant depressions, for da had had them: big, massive, scudding, whopping, black-cloud, infectious, crow, raven, jackdaw, coffin-upon-coffin, catacomb-upon-catacomb, skeletons-upon-skulls-upon-bones crawling along the ground to the grave type of depressions.

People were crazy with pain and secrets.

To wait - only to wait - without even the final merciful deprivation of hope. Sometimes I think that some secret court must have tried and condemned me, unheard, to this heavy sentence.

I said I wanted to see her. 'You can't.' He turned the key, dropped it into his pocket, threw a pistol down on the table. 'She's dead.' A knife went through me. All other deaths in the world were outside; this one was in my body, like a bayonet, like my own.

It was the emotional equivalent of driving a knife into someone's heart, then viciously twisting it to do even more damage.

Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe.

I am a restrained person. Otherwise my heart would race past my tongue to pour out everything. Instead I mumble, I gnaw myself. I lose hope. And my mind is burning.

God's pity! How long will it feel like burning?

trapped in his own bad apple. Each morning a shock to return to the cut soul.

Under the seams runs the pain.

Belief needs something terrible to make it work, I find-- blood, nails, a bit of anguish.