Best 2955 quotes in «sadness quotes» category

May you hear my feeble voice! It will tell you that here below there is a heart full of the memory of you.

May you suffer enough tragedy to gain a vast knowledge and understanding of life.

Me bastaba un simple roce o el olor para identificarle, y si me quedara ciego, podría reconocerle por el modo en que respiraba o en que pisaba el suelo. Le reconocería en el fin del mundo, incluso en la muerte.

Mearth appeared angry and disappointed briefly, but then she just gazed at the ground. “…It must be horrible, feeling all alone, is it?” she asked. “Oh, not really,” said Alecto, his eyes lifeless, his voice listless. “I’m going to be forgotten by someone who I can’t forget, though. That will be terrible… but maybe it’s better if she does forget me altogether.

Me entran ganas de gritar a la mujer que era yo hace unos años: «¡Quedarte embarazada no significa que vayas a tener un hijo, idiota!».

Mencoba mengubur kesedihan dengan menimbun kebencian adalah suatu hal yang sia-sia. Semakin kau membenci, semakin erat pula tali kepedihan itu akan melilitmu.

... me paso tanto tiempo esforzándome para no decepcionar a la gente… Y qué pasa con lo que yo quiero, ¿eh?

Mikey," she says, but not like she's about to say anything more, just like she's identifying me, making a place for me here that's mine to exist in. I want her so much, my heart feels heavy, like I'm grieving. Is this what they meant about that stomach feeling? They didn't say it felt this sad.

Misery is a no U-turns, no stopping road. Travel down it pushed by those behind, tripped by those in front. Travel down it at furious speed though the days are mummified in lead. It happens so fast once you get started, there’s no anchor from the real world to slow you down, nothing to hold on to. Misery pulls away the brackets of life leaving you to free fall. Whatever your private hell, you’ll find millions like it in Misery. This is the town where everyone’s nightmares come true.

Misschien is boosheid alleen maar binnenstebuiten gedraaid verdriet

Mistasinon stood as the music of life flowed around him, the instrument of his agency muted.

Missing someone is the worst form of torture because it never goes away no matter where you are or what you do with your life. When a person is gone and all you have of them is a fuzzy recollection of what it was like to hear your phone buzz with texts from them, the joy you experienced while in their company, that instance when the bond you shared shattered, you long for all that was lost and could’ve been gained. You have memories and nothing more. And no matter how much times passes, you still feel the ache of their absence whenever they rise into your thoughts. Torture.

Moist pillows calmed the heaviness of deserted souls, often.

More lies, but maybe lies were better than the truth.

Most days I live awed by the world we have still, rather than mourning the worlds we have lost. The bandit mask of a cedar waxwing on a bare branch a few feet away; the clear bright sun of a frozen winter noon; the rise of Orion in the eastern evening sky-every day, every night, I give thanks for another chance to notice. I see beauty everywhere; so much beauty I often speak it aloud. So much beauty I often laugh, and my day is made. Still if you wanted to, I think, you could feel sadness without end. I’m not even talking about hungry children or domestic violence or endless wars between supposedly grown men…but ‘you mustn’t be frightened if a sadness rises in front of you, larger than any you even seen,' said Rilke, 'you must realize that something is happening to you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in it hand and will not let you fall.

Most men are blinded by the words "Bad Bitches" and end settling for less!

most of the times it’s the hardest to say what I love more you or your memory.

Most people have given back to life the power to make themselves happy.

Most people think that anger, sadness and frustration are to be avoided. How am I to improve myself if I can be happy in being stupid, happy in being with the stupid and contempt with too little? How am I to improve if my desire is not fueled by need? And how am I to know need if I cannot feel dissatisfaction?

Most will do what’s comfortable because, let’s face it, we all like guarantees. Working a draining 9-to-5 will guarantee that your rent is paid on time, it’ll guarantee that your loans will be taken care of, it’ll guarantee you three square meals every night of the week. What if you broke down an entire lifetime of guarantees and found that your most prized moments consisted of standard, fragmented memories; high school dances, learning how to drive a car, graduating college… It’s almost as if you stopped living life the moment your education ended, the moment it was time to ‘grow up’ and ‘get a real job.

Mrs. Norris had been talking to her the whole way from Northampton of her wonderful good fortune, and the extraordinary degree of gratitude and good behaviour which it ought to produce, and her consciousness of misery was therefore increased by the idea of its being a wicked thing for her not to be happy.

Most unexpected was the sadness that followed on the heels of pleasure, like smoke from an extinguished candle.

Mountains in the distance remind me of you.

Mourn with those who are sorrowful. Be happy with those who are joyful.

Mr. Knightley to be no longer coming there for his evening comfort! - No longer walking in at all hours, as if ever willing to change his own home for their's! - How was it to be endured?

Mrs. Allan's face was not the face of the girlbride whom the minister had brought to Avonlea five years before. It had lost some of its bloom and youthful curves, and there were fine, patient lines about eyes and mouth. A tiny grave in that very cemetery accounted for some of them; and some new ones had come during the recent illness, now happily over, of her little son. But Mrs. Allan's dimples were as sweet and sudden as ever, her eyes as clear and bright and true; and what her face lacked of girlish beauty was now more than atoned for in added tenderness and strength.

Murder can sometimes seem justified, but it is murder all the same. You are truthful and clear-minded--face the truth, mademoiselle! Your friend died in the last resort, because she had not the courage to live. We may sympathize with her. We may pity her. But the fact remains--the act was hers--not another.

Music heals miserable heart.

Music melts the soul misery.

Music dissipates every misery.

My affection for you is attached to whatever self I possess -- an inherent, eternal synchronization... an automatic response to living... transforming from hit to misses, from Ms. to Mrs...

My beautiful swan. My savior and my undoing.

Must it so be that whatever makes man happy must later become the source of his misery?

Music had always had the ability to help ease my suffering. I sang a great deal at home. I sang to myself and to Lord Imery. Sometimes, I played the harp to accompany myself. Learning such a graceful instrument had filled my heart with pride. I loved the feeling of adding something beautiful to a room. I looked down at my shaking hands. There were no melodies left in those withered fingers.

Music helps us drift away to places of tranquility, happiness, sadness, & imagination.

My brave husband came back from fighting the Turks and brought me a robe of silk and a necklace of human teeth. He sat up at night by his hearth telling tales of battle. Apparently the Turks are ten times more ferocious and fearless than the Scots. 'Perhaps we should invite them here to drive the Scots back,' I suggested, and he laughed, but he didn't kiss me. That's when I learned the truth about scars. A man with a battle scar is a veteran, a hero, given an honoured place at the fire. Small boys gaze up fascinated, dreaming of winning such badges of courage. Maids caress his thighs with their buttocks as they bend over to mull his ale. Women cluck and cosset, and if in time other men grow a little weary of that tale of honour, then they call for his cup to be filled again and again until he is fuddled and dozes quietly in the warmth of the embers. But a scarred woman is not encouraged to tell her story. Boys jeer and mothers cross themselves. Pregnant women will not come close for fear that if they look upon such a sight, the infant in their belly will be marked. You've heard of the tales of Beauty and the Beast no doubt. How a fair maid falls in love with a monster and sees the beauty of his soul beneath the hideous visage. But you've never heard the tale of the handsome man falling for the monstrous woman and finding joy in her love, because it doesn't happen, not even in fairytales. The truth is that the scarred woman's husband buys her a good thick veil and enquires about nunneries for the good of her health. He spends his days with his falcons and his nights instructing pageboys in their duties. For if nothing else, the wars taught him how to be a diligent master to such pretty lads.

My dad was a magician too. Got in his car and disappeared.

My friend lost his mother when we were at college. I spent a lot of nights talking with him. Lot of nights." He pauses. "I know what it's like. You don't just get over it. And it doesn't make any difference if you're supposedly a "grown-up". And it never goes away,

My father once made us," she began, "keep a diary, in two columns; on one side we were to put down in the morning what we thought would be the course and events of the coming day, and at night we were to put down on the other side what really had happened. It would be to some people rather a sad way of telling their lives," (a tear dropped upon my hand at these words) - "I don't mean that mine has been sad, only so very different to what I expected.

My first impression of [Patricia Highsmith] was a loneliness, a sadness in one so young (we were both in our early thirties) with absolutely no sense of joy or balance. Gauche to an extreme, really physically clumsy as well as boyish, it was almost impossible to put her at ease. It was as if she felt a deep distrust of everything.

My ghost is the only soul who ever comes to cry on my grave... Only the skies cried sincerely on my funeral.

My health is only just good enough for myself alone, not good enough for marriage, let alone fatherhood. Yet when I read your letter, I feel I could overlook even what cannot possibly be overlooked.

My heart had melted into something akin to a sensation of happiness, peace of mind one might even say, at the realization that I had now reached the very bottom of agony.

My homesickness is a tangible thing, like a cannon ball of sadness, just pushing into my heart.

My heart was in a perpetual state of sadness and the only relief I could find were in those cathartic cries. I lived a fragile existence.

My insides feel like they are crumbling like a towering JENGA game. I lose.

My life was a wreck. I had nothing, no material possessions, unless debts counts. Fourteen pairs of shoes that were too small for me was all I had to show after a lifetime of profligate spending. I hadn’t a job. I hadn’t any qualifications. I’d achieved nothing with my life. I’d never been happy. I had no husband or boyfriend.

My loneliness taught me a thing which is too appreciable! The people for whom we think that they can help us while we need them, they just kicked a rough comment over the situation and say "Sorry".

My lips have touched more bottles than lovers and I'm half a shot away from psychotic.

My mind is like a sea You will only drown, If you think you can swim There are things that devours me, No love can ever save me.