Best 2955 quotes in «sadness quotes» category

A sad soul needs an infinite horizon which can throw all his sorrow into the silence of the eternal emptiness!

As árvores nas margens, cobertas de neve, as raparigas de boina de lã e de mãos medidas no regalo, a música que de tão fogosa aquecia o ambiente, tudo isso pertence aos momentos bué construíram a mesma minha vida, pois que mais é uma vida do que o reportório de momentos? É injusta a Natureza, que priva parte das crianças de um mundo de Inverno branco, de rios gelados em que se dança, para o substituir por chuvas monótonas, por humidade que, agressiva e hostil, nos penetra no corpo. (...) Apetecia-me chorar, não por causa da dor que passou depressa, mas por me sentir o invadida por uma tristeza singular. Era como se alguma coisa de muito belo tivesse desaparecido da minha existência ou como se alguém querido se tivesse despedido para sempre.

As awful as he could be, I always knew he loved me in a way no one else ever had.

As far as he could discover, there were no signs of spring. The decay that covered the surface of the mottled ground was not the kind in which life generates. Last year, he remembered, May had failed to quicken these soiled fields. It had taken all the brutality of July to torture a few green spikes through the exhausted dirt. What the little park needed, even more than he did, was a drink. Neither alcohol nor rain would do. Tomorrow, in his column, he would ask Broken-hearted, Sick-of-it-all, Desperate, Disillusioned-with-tubercular-husband and the rest of his correspondents to come here and water the soil with their tears. Flowers would then spring up, flowers that smelled of feet. "Ah, humanity..." But he was heavy with shadow and the joke went into a dying fall. He trist to break its fall by laughing at himself.

As if one's capacity for pain had anything to do with life's apportionment of agonies, Mr. Kimmelbrod thought. Such idiocy.

A shower is the perfect place for crying. No one can hear you if you do it quietly, into a wash-cloth, with the water running.

A sieve is a thing with holes in. Nearly everything has holes in, eventually.

As long as there is happiness, there will be sadness. As long as there is fortune, there will be misfortune. “…What’s real is something that not even the strength of the Goddess can change. The only one who can change it is me. If I don’t change my destiny, if I don’t cut through the obstacles in my path, then no matter where I go, I’ll always be standing in the same place, doing the same thing over and over again, for the rest of my life.

A smile leaked from behind the boy’s somber face, and then the thing withered like a little flower growing someplace infirm.

A smile is a song from the heart; a tear is a letter from the soul.

As the days dwindled towards the end of the week I knew only one thing: I couldn't return to our old life. Haroon had taken Honour and Al with him,

A storm is an artist who passes by on her way to paint your rainbow.

A sweet slip of a girl like you, why should you have to know anything about the sorrow of the world? You just believe me when I tell you... there's no way to live your life to the full and not have a reason to shed a tear now and again. It's not a bad feeling, child. That's what a lament does. It makes you feel happy to be sad, in a strange way. D'you see?

A sudden sadness settled on her shoulders for him. What must it be like to carry so much hate that lashing out at other people made it hurt less? Her breath caught in her throat and tears threatened her again, but they were different this time. She felt sad for him. She felt sorry for him. Wherever he was . . . she forgave him.

At 10:37pm she took her last breath. Her last breath of life was a very long exhale and then she never took another breath again.

At a certain point he learned the smarter play was to avoid the things that brought you low.

At first I thought he was laughing because his shoulders were shaking, but then he put his palms on his eyes and I realized he was crying. It was the quietest crying I've ever heard. Like a whisper. I was going to go over to him, but then I thought maybe he was whisper-crying because he didn't want me or anyone else to hear him.

At least the tears on my desk wipe away the dust that's covered this place

At that moment, sitting on that park bench, The Writer was overcome by an indefinable sadness not completely ascribable to the state in which The Mother was now, nor the desperation of his decades-long creative crisis, a sadness so strong he could have peddle it to all the enthusiasts in the world and turned them into depressives, and would still have some left over. Because he no longer knew what to do with so much sadness. And sometimes he didn't even know what to do with himself.

At the end of every dark storm is a bright rainbow.

At the top of the page I wrote my full name [...] At the sight of it, many thoughts rushed through me, but I could write down only this: "I wish I could love someone so much that I would die from it." And then as I looked at this sentence a great deal of shame came over me and I wept and wept so much that the tears fell on the page and caused all the words to become one great big blur.

At times people who are extremely sad become lighthearted for the most trivial reasons, merely to obtain the relief furnished by the exactly opposite condition.

A veces, el dolor es el único recuerdo de que lo que tuvimos fue real.

Autumn is said to be the month of sadness, but in fact it is the end of autumn which is sad one, because a splendid beauty will be over!

Aveva gli occhi tristi di una pezzata rossa che dopo anni di onorato servizio lattifero veniva portata al macello.

Awareness is a choiceless consciousness. Awareness is the capacity to embrace, accept and include both joy and sadness, love and aloneness, light and darkness, male and female qualities and life and death. Through saying “yes” and accepting both tendencies and including whatever aspect that happens in the moment, we meet our unlimited and boundless inner being. The inner man and woman need to find their own independence and integrity.

A woman who had fallen out of love with her life

A writer out of loneliness is trying to communicate like a distant star sending signals. He isn't telling, or teaching, or ordering. Rather, he seeks to establish a relationship with meaning, of feeling, of observing. We are lonesome animals. We spend all our live trying to be less lonesome. And one of our ancient methods is to tell a story, begging the listener to say, and to feel, "Yes, that's the way it is, or at least that's the way I feel it. You're not as alone as you thought." To finish is sadness to a writer, a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.

Back then, he'd have to leave at the end of August for the start of school, so the week before Labor Day became it's own tiny season of gloom, like a hundred Sunday nights crowded together.

Bad things happen to our life so as to favor the good things that will happen next.

A Lament O world! O life! O time! On whose last steps I climb, Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime? No more -- Oh, never more! Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight; Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more -- Oh, never more!

Beauty and sadness always go together. Nature thought Beauty too golden to go forth Upon the earth without a meet alloy.

Baby, don't build a monument for me of your sadness. You wouldn't have wasted your tears when I was alive. Why make an ocean of them now when it's over? The future you dreamed is a dream. Dream something else.

Baby girl Wake up and Worry a little less today Be brave and strong Open the doors and receive All the light Let the rays of sunshine come in

Back then, come July, and the blazers would again make their way out of the steel trunks and evenings would be spent looking at snow-capped mountains from our terrace and spotting the first few lights on the hills above. It was the time for radishes and mulberries in the garden and violets on the slopes. The wind carried with it the comforting fragrance of eucalyptus. It was in fact all about the fragrances, like you know, in a Sherlock Holmes story. Even if you walked with your eyes closed, you could tell at a whiff, when you had arrived at the place, deduce it just by its scent. So, the oranges denoted the start of the fruit-bazaar near Prakash ji’s book shop, and the smell of freshly baked plum cake meant you had arrived opposite Air Force school and the burnt lingering aroma of coffee connoted Mayfair. But when they carved a new state out of the land and Dehra was made its capital, we watched besotted as that little town sprouted new buildings, high-rise apartments, restaurant chains, shopping malls and traffic jams, and eventually it spilled over here. I can’t help noticing now that the fragrances have changed; the Mogra is tinged with a hint of smoke and will be on the market tomorrow. The Church has remained and so has everything old that was cast in brick and stone, but they seem so much more alien that I almost wish they had been ruined.’ ('Left from Dhakeshwari')

Because it's so hard to be kind to the world when all you've ever felt is hate.

Because minds do blow and hearts do break. Those are not just sayings. And wolves and roaches are not the only creatures that chew off their legs to get out of traps—human beings do that, too.

Because memories fall apart, too. And then you're left with nothing, left not even with a ghost but with its shadow. In the beginning she haunted me, haunted my dreams, but even now, just weeks later, she was slipping away, falling apart in my memory and everyone else's, dying again.

Because I want to know if I'm allowed to kiss your tears away. Because I want to be able to hold your hand. Because I like you.

Because no one can make another person happy", said George. "He was happy when he was with me, but otherwise he wasn't. That's not enough. I mean, in a relationship, you have your ups and downs, sure, and you help each other through, but if a person is genuinely unhappy, it won't work. No amount of love or laughter from the other person can fix that. Each person has to love and laugh on their own They need to feel it for real, deep down, in here.

Because my sacrifice shook the world, because the ramifications of love cannot be tamed / I was kept alive in memories, and dead in the rains / in flames.

Because my life is empty window of nothingness punctuated by meaningless details of totally mundane non-events.

Because we know he was simply a man, with weakness and frailties. Who yearned for the same things all of us do--to love and be loved

Because we were Russian, sadness came naturally to us. But so did reading. In my family, a book was a life raft.

Be compassionate; bring joy to sadness.

Before the house-maid had lit the fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over the cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her.

Behind these eyes there is a girl trapped within her pain – a girl feeling all the emotions of anger and sadness. She’s fighting for a way out.” (In her eyes, p. 39)

Before we can bring happiness to others, we first must be happy ourselves; nor will happiness abide within us unless we confer it on others. If there be a smile upon our lips, those around us will soon smile too; and our happiness will become the truer and deeper as we see that these others are happy. "It is not seemly that I, who, willingly, have brought sorrow to none, should permit myself to be sad," said Marcus Aurelius, in one of his noblest passages.

Be gentle, always delicate with every soul you meet, for every single morning you wake up, there is someone Wishing, silently and secretly, that they had not.

Before you came, things were as they should be: the sky was the dead-end of sight, the road was just a road, wine merely wine. Now everything is like my heart, a color at the edge of blood: the grey of your absence, the color of poison, of thorns, the gold when we meet, the season ablaze, the yellow of autumn, the red of flowers, of flames, and the black when you cover the earth with the coal of dead fires. And the sky, the road, the glass of wine? The sky is a shirt wet with tears, the road a vein about to break, and the glass of wine a mirror in which the sky, the road, the world keep changing. Don’t leave now that you’re here— Stay. So the world may become like itself again: so the sky may be the sky, the road a road, and the glass of wine not a mirror, just a glass of wine.