Quotes About Anguish

You drive me back down my desperation—that unclouded incurable never forgotten evil growing inside my life.

To the depths of terror, too dark to hear, to see.

the stabbing daggers, stab of memory raking me insane.

Worse yet, the sight of my children, born as they were born, how could I long to look into their eyes?

Yours is a grief that can't be quenched.

Hopeless frustration devoured my youth.

How do you measure misery?

Does it hurt in your ears, sir, or in your soul?

godforsaken, cursed by the gods! I pity you but I can't bear to look.

inside me I'm dying

The pains we inflict upon ourselves hurt most most of all.

Boredom is the root of all evil - the despairing refusal to be oneself.

What is a poet? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music.

The specific character of despair is precisely this: it is unaware of being despair.

With every increase in the degree of consciousness, and in proportion to that increase, the intensity of despair increases: the more consciousness the more intense the despair.

La angustia, sin embargo, no es hermosa por sí misma, sino solamente cuando aparece acompañada por la energía que sabe dominarla.

What is a poet? An unhappy man who in his heart harbors a deep anguish, but whose lips are so fashioned that the moans and cries which pass over them are transformed into ravishing music….And men crowd about the poet and say to him, 'Sing for us soon again'- which is as much to say, 'May new sufferings torment your soul, but may your lips be fashioned as before; for the cries would only distress us, but the music, the music is delightful.

The worst prison is not of stone. It is of a throbbing heart, outraged by an infamous life.

He sobbed in desperation at the burden of fear he carried with him every day of his life.

At peace? Who but the insane would ever be at peace? What person who has enjoyed life could possibly think one is enough? Who could live even a day and not feel the sweet ache of regret?

But I am bound upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears do scald like moulten lead.

It wasn't my day. My week. My month. My year. My life. God damn it.

Alone.Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym.

I awoke with an insatiable desire to end my life.