Quotes About Turmoil

it reels under a wild storm of blood, wave after wave battering Thebes.

My god, my god—what have you planned to do to me?

Hopeless frustration devoured my youth.

ÖDIPUS. Wie packt mich, da ich eben dich gehört hab, Frau, der Seele Irrlauf und Erschütterung des Geistes!

inside me I'm dying

There's always trouble in the Middle East. I can't recall any time in my life when there hasn't been trouble there.

It's amazing what storms your face can hide, what terrible wrecks can writhe and heave beneath, without one ripple on the surface.

Life's a little bit too crazy for my liking right now.

What is the true test of character unless it be its progressive development in the bustle and turmoil, in the action and reaction of daily life.

It was a confusing time in my life, a really bad day at the office.

All hell broke loose.

Fill'd the air with barbarous dissonance.

Me miserable! Which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell; And in the lowest deep a lower deep, Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.

Restless, he begs for storms, As though in storms there is rest.

O me, this place is hell.

La vida, en todas sus manifestaciones, es conflicto

Five years of destruction and mayhem, lives lost everywhere, shortages of food and fuel and clothing - and the insane mind behind it just urges us all on and on to more destruction. And we all keep playing.

Hope has no feathers Hope takes flight tethered with twine like a tattered kite, slave to the wind's capricious drift eager to soar but needing lift Hope waits stubbornly watching the sky for turmoil, feeding on things that fly: crows, ashes, newspapers, dry leaves in flight all suggest wind that could lift a kite Hope sails and plunges firmly caught at the end of her string - fallen slack, pulling taught, ragged and featherless. Hope never flies but doggedly watches for windy skies.

You know, it set you at war with yourself.

I think some people call this love. I call it hell.

It was awful, this love.

The sense that everything is going wrong has existed in every era, and rightly so since men have found no greater pleasure than in inventing new ways to make each other miserable.

Nu preÅ£uiesc o carte decât prin tulburarea, prin otrava pe care-o toarn? în mine.

Emily Dickinson: «I felt a funeral in my brain».1 Podría añadir, como Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, «en todos los momentos de mi vida». Funeral perpetuo del espíritu.