Best 381 of Melancholy quotes - MyQuotes
Death wasn’t something to romanticize. It was something to stave off, to avoid, to fight as long as possible. Even though she had her battles with melancholy, she never seriously considered suicide. Something in her trusted that there would be an upswing and it would be worth waiting for.
When you find yourself overpowered, as it were, by melancholy, the best way is to go out and do something.
Edgar Allan Poe
Melancholy is ... the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.
My prayers, my tears, my wishes, fears, and lamentations, were witnessed by myself and heaven alone. When we are harassed by sorrows or anxieties, or long oppressed by any powerful feelings which we must keep to ourselves, for which we can obtain and seek no sympathy from any living creature, and which yet we cannot, or will not wholly crush, we often naturally seek relief in poetry—and often find it, too—whether in the effusions of others, which seem to harmonize with our existing case, or in our own attempts to give utterance to those thoughts and feelings in strains less musical, perchance, but more appropriate, and therefore more penetrating and sympathetic, and, for the time, more soothing, or more powerful to rouse and to unburden the oppressed and swollen heart.
The cello is such a melancholy instrument, such an isolated, miserable instrument.
I close my eyes and listen to the ocean. I'm thinking about sailing, to England or maybe France. The way the wind would feel on my face and the sound of his voice screaming my name through his laughter. The waves would crash like applause. God, I remember when I used to be afraid of the ocean.
Oh, Mercédès, I have spoken your name with sighs of melancholy, with groans of pain and with the croak of despair. I have spoken it frozen with cold, huddled on the straw of my dungeon. I have spoken it raging with heat and rolling around on the stone floor of my prison. Mercédès, I must have my revenge, because for fourteen years I suffered, fourteen years I wept and cursed. Now, I say to you, Mercédès, I must have my revenge!
You’re going back?” asked Bod. Things that had been immutable were changing. “You’re really leaving? But. You’re my guardian.” “I was you’re guardian. But you are old enough to guard yourself. I have other things to protect.
Hands that never touch. Lips that never meet. The Almost Lovers, never to be.
A melancholy lesson of advancing years is the realisation that you can't make old friends.
The more melancholy side of my literary personality is much in tune with BS Johnson's.
Guy De Maupassant
She stayed there, in her ball dress, without strength to go to bed, overwhelmed, on a chair, without a fire, without a thought.
Out on the lawn, Bunny had just knocked Henry's ball about seventy feet outside the court. There was a ragged burst of laughter; faint, but clear, it floated back across the evening air. That laughter haunts me still.
Nothing you did made sense and nothing you’ll ever do.
Ah God! to see the branches stir Across the moon at Grantchester! To smell the thrilling-sweet and rotten Unforgettable, unforgotten River-smell, and hear the breeze Sobbing in the little trees. Say, do the elm-clumps greatly stand Still guardians of that holy land? The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream, The yet unacademic stream Is dawn a secret shy and cold Anadyomene, silver-gold? And sunset still a golden sea From Haslingfield to Madingley? And after, ere the night is born, Do hares come out about the corn? Oh, is the water sweet and cool, Gentle and brown, above the pool? And laughs the immortal river still Under the mill, under the mill? Say, is there Beauty yet to find? And Certainty? and Quiet kind? Deep meadows yet, for to forget The lies, and truths, and pain?… oh! yet Stands the Church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?
We are sometimes dragged into a pit of unhappiness by someone else’s opinion that we do not look happy.
Anonymous > Quotes > Quotable Quote “I see life as a roadside inn where I have to stay until the coach from the abyss pulls up. I don’t know where it will take me, because I don’t know anything. I could see this inn as a prison, for I’m compelled to wait in it; I could see it as a social centre, for it’s here that I meet others. But I’m neither impatient nor common. I leave who will to stay shut up in their rooms, sprawled out on beds where they sleeplessly wait, and I leave who will to chat in the parlours, from where their songs and voices conveniently drift out here to me. I’m sitting at the door, feasting my eyes and ears on the colours and sounds of the landscape, and I softly sing – for myself alone – wispy songs I compose while waiting.
Probably you were not quite well, my little dove, when you wrote to me, for a note of real melancholy pervaded your letter. I recognized in it a nature closely akin to my own. I know the feeling only too well. In my life, too, there are days, hours, weeks, aye, and months, in which everything looks black, when I am tormented by the thought that I am forsaken, that no one cares for me. Indeed, my life is of little worth to anyone. Were I to vanish from the face of the earth to-day, it would be no great loss to Russian music, and would certainly cause no one great unhappiness. In short, I live a selfish bachelor’s life. I work for myself alone, and care only for myself. This is certainly very comfortable, although dull, narrow, and lifeless. But that you, who are indispensable to so many whose happiness you make, that you can give way to depression, is more than I can believe. How can you doubt for a moment the love and esteem of those who surround you? How could it be possible not to love you? No, there is no one in the world more dearly loved than you are. As for me, it would be absurd to speak of my love for you. If I care for anyone, it is for you, for your family, for my brothers and our old Dad. I love you all, not because you are my relations, but because you are the best people in the world.
Broken Melody Broken melody — tear sparkling in the eye Of a woman loved… Please past, Jewel lost, A trampled dream Lips unkissed In the broken melody. With silent sobs the naked shoulders shake, Their whiteness dazzling… Stabbed, stabbed with remorse For the moments of mindlessness, For her ruined fate, For the happiness lost In the broken melody. Face hidden in her hands in shame, Remorsefully the woman weeps, With heart despairing (A broken guitar, A voice stifled On lips kissed by pain In the broken melody). Silent he stands beside the woman weeping Scolding tears of shame That dim her eyes. Some money on the table quickly lays And goes away, Leaving the woman lost In the broken melody. But when another comes, lust mounts again, The heated blood Pounds furiously through the veins, Benumbing mind … and only gasps And grants are heard In the horrid melody. (Translated by R.Elsie)
Affection, like melancholy, magnifies trifles.
There is something so enchanting in the smile of melancholy. It is a ray of light in the darkness, a shade between sadness and despair, showing the possibility of consolation.
Men do not die on mornings like this: whatever happens then happens in their name, like the lives of obscure saints, who exist only in folk memory.
Neither can you explain yourself to me. Nor can I explain myself to you. You have your sadness and I have mine.
Despite her words about letting go, melancholy washed over her. Because words are easy and often thrown around with trite intentions.
Credinţa zugrăveşte icoanele-n biserici - Şi-n sufletu-mi pusese poveştile-i feerici, Dar de-ale vieţii valuri, de al furtunii pas Abia conture triste şi umbre-au mai rămas. În van mai caut lumea-mi în obositul creier, Căci răguşit, tomnatec, vrăjeşte trist un greier; Pe inima-mi pustie zadarnic mâna-mi ţiu, Ea bate ca şi cariul încet într-un sicriu. Şi când gândesc la viaţa-mi, îmi pare că ea cură Încet repovestită de o străină gură, Ca şi când n-ar fi viaţa-mi, ca şi când n-aş fi fost. Cine-i acel ce-mi spune povestea pe de rost De-mi ţin la el urechea - şi râd de câte-ascult Ca de dureri străine?... Parc-am murit de mult.
Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
Dass man, wenn man sehr müde ist, sagt, man sei todmüde, fiel mir ein, und dass man, wenn man todmüde ist, doch voller Leben ist, und wenn man lebensmüde ist, schon dem Tod nahe.
I am a melancholy type of person.
I'll always be your friend, Talltail. But I'm a kittypet and you're a warrior. You'll always be a Warrior.
I'll use the blood from my spilling heart to write the words that were never able to slip out of my mouth, so you can see how much you've broken me into a perpetual state of melancholy.
I was willing to yield to nostalgia, that melancholy residue of desire.
He missed two people: a) the girl she was; b) the person she’d made him feel he might have been. A deep sigh escaped him.
Carol Rifka Brunt
If you close your eyes when you sing in Latin, and if you stand right at the back so you can keep one hand against the cold stone wall of the church, you can pretend you're in the Middle Ages. That's why I did it. That's what I was in it for.
I often wish I'd got on better with your father,' he said. But he never liked anyone who--our friends,' said Clarissa; and could have bitten her tongue for thus reminding Peter that he had wanted to marry her. Of course I did, thought Peter; it almost broke my heart too, he thought; and was overcome with his own grief, which rose like a moon looked at from a terrace, ghastly beautiful with light from the sunken day. I was more unhappy than I've ever been since, he thought. And as if in truth he were sitting there on the terrace he edged a little towards Clarissa; put his hand out; raised it; let it fall. There above them it hung, that moon. She too seemed to be sitting with him on the terrace, in the moonlight.
Garth Risk Hallberg
Now, though, there was a second part, an artifact of his recent illness, as if his melancholy had, in a universe adjacent to this one, claimed his life. As if he was his own ghost, standing slightly behind himself, observing.
A tendancy to melancholy...let it be observed, is a misfortune, not a fault.
(Episode 9. Hijikata finds Gintoki on a rooftop and challenges him to a duel to avenge Kondo's defeat earlier. Gintoki doesn't want to fight him, so breaks Hijikata's sword easily, and leaves. It's then revealed that Okita and Kondo had been watching them clash, from another rooftop.) Okita Sougou: "He's an interesting man. I'd like to cross swords with him, myself." Kondo: "Don't bother. He'll kick your ass, Sougou." "He's the kind of guy fighting another battle far away, even as a sword swings at his throat." "Fair or unfair, it doesn't matter to him." (Not knowing that Kondo & Okita were watching his duel from a high vantage point, Hijikata lights a cigarette and sits back.) Hijikata (watching the blue sky above him): "Sorry, Kondo-san. I lost to him, as well ...
I want to drown in my tears, And my tears are my prayers.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
I thought once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young; And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightaway I was 'ware, So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,-- Guess now who holds thee?--Death, I said, But, there, The silver answer rang,--Not Death, but Love.
In the period of my life that Fred and I had this conversation I was writing a thesis at Melbourne University as part of a masters in creative writing, entitled Melancholy Ever After, about the effect of melancholy on narrative structure in fairy tales.
The body is a museum for memories. I am the Smithsonian.
A mist is rolling over the fields. Why is a summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?
...and when we die we die alone I cry, I cry alone Like a piece of stone I am thrown into the wavy ocean of life to atone...to atone Only to atone...
It is the heaviest stone that melancholy can throw at a man, to tell him he is at the end of his nature; or that there is no further state to come, unto which this seems progressional, and otherwise made in vain. Without this accomplishment, the natural expectation and desire of such a state, were but a fallacy in nature; unsatisfied considerators would quarrel the justice of their constitutions, and rest content that Adam had fallen lower; whereby, by knowing no other original, and deeper ignorance of themselves, they might have enjoyed the happiness of inferior creatures, who in tranquillity possess their constitutions, as having not the apprehension to deplore their own natures, and, being framed below the circumference of these hopes, or cognition of better being, the wisdom of God hath necessitated their contentment: but the superior ingredient and obscured part of ourselves, whereto all present felicities afford no resting contentment, will be able at last to tell us, we are more than our present selves, and evacuate such hopes in the fruition of their own accomplishments.
Melancholy is not one of my emotions. Quite seriously, I don't do melancholy. It's a miserable way to be.
It is my melancholy fate to like so many people I profoundly disagree with and often heartily dislike people who agree with me.
John D. Macdonald
I thundered hot water into the big tub, setting up McGee's Handy Home Treatment for Melancholy. A deep hot bath, and a strong cold drink, and a book on the tub rack. Who needs the Megrims? Surely not McGee, not that big brown loose-jointed, wirehaired beach rambler, that lazy fishcatching, girlwatching, grey-eyed iconoclastic hustler. Stay happy, McGee, while you use up the stockpiled cash. Borrow a Junior from Meyer for the sake of coziness. Or get dressed and go over to the next doc, over to the big Wheeler where the Alabama Tiger maintains his permanent floating house party and join the festive pack. Do anything, but stop remembering the way Sam Taggart looks with all the wandering burned out of him. Stop remembering the sly shy way Nicki would walk toward you, across a room. Stop remembering the way Lois died. Get in there and have fun, fella. While there's fun to have. While there's some left. Before they deal you out.
But my favorite part in my body are my dark circles. They define me. They reveal my melancholy.
For me, the melancholy of the late XXth Century is walking late at night by the Mont Blanc pen store and seeing these things always strike me as simulacra of luxury items. They seem like fakes.
It is warm, I am alive, I am calm and sad, I hardly know why. In this existence so even, so tranquil, and so gentle as I have here, I am in an element that weakens me morally while strengthening me physically; and I fall into melancholies of honey and roses which are none the less melancholy. It seems to me that all those I love forget me, and that it is justice, because I live a selfish life having nothing to do for any one of them.