Quotes About Anguish

I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.

Shut up in public those bloody private wounds.

My flesh winced, in cowardice, from such a death.

This is what it is to be complete. It is horrible.

I simply don't know what to do. All joy and hope is gone.

What holes this papery day is already full of! He has been burning me with cigarettes

The tongues of hell are dull.

I am not ready for anything to happen. I should have murdered this, that murders me.

After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture-chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and on all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.

If I could bleed, or sleep! If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!

Then something bent down and took hold of me and shook me like the end of the world. Whee-ee-ee-ee-ee, it shrilled, through an air crackling with blue light, and with each flash a great jolt drubbed me till I thought my bones would break and the sap fly out of me like a split plant. I wondered what terrible thing it was I had done.

I could feel the tears start to spurt from the screwed-up nozzles of my eyes.

I can only hazard. In the back of my mind there are bombs falling, women and children screaming, but I can't describe it now.

It had nothing to do with me, but I couldn't help wondering what it would be like, being burned alive all along your nerves. I thought it must be the worst thing in the world.

Why does that green guck still spawn itself endlessly out of my head, dripping and clinging in my throat, my lungs, blocking in glutinous hunks behind my eyes: I feel sometimes I am blowing out the putrescent remains of my own decayed brains.

In life, love gnawed my skin To this white bone; What love did then, love does now: Gnaws me through.

the razor slitting the stomach, and the life throbbing away, red flood by red flood - I lay crouched, kneeling on the khaki quilt on the living room floor where there was air

Hell is oneself, Hell is alone.

Who then devised the torment? Love.

It's just ordinary hopelessness.

My heart bleeds buttermilk. -Daine

All at once she saw a young man bound on a wheel of iron; his hair was black, his white body marbed with purple wounds, and his face forever empty.

Electra Chenti in crimson almost black, a diadem of Grechian influence in her uncombed hair from which unravelled a veil like a golden spider's web, studied her narrow hands and the thirteen rings that gripped her fingers. She cared little for any of them. There was only one she hated-on the marriage finger of her left hand. The scalding room had not tinted her white cheeks at all. Yet she had warned a fraction. To a perverse, bitter joy that her daughter, too, must suffer marriage.

Mercurio began to laugh. It was not the usual musical and dangerous laughter. He coughed and cawed and rolled on the ground, bent double as in pain-he might have been weeping. And somewhere in his soul, possibly he was.