Best 155 quotes in «dread quotes» category

This was what happiness felt like - this wondrous, miraculous alternative to dread.

Valentine's Day is the day all singletons like me dread

When one has too great a dread of what is impending, one feels some relief when the trouble has come.

We all dread a bodily paralysis, and would make use of every contrivance to avoid it; but none of us is troubled about a paralysis of the soul.

We dread the future only when we are not sure we can kill ourselves when we want to.

When people do not dread authorities, then a greater dread descends.

Waiting for the horror is almost more frightening than actually seeing it. Just the pending dread.

We dread old age, which are not sure of being able to attain. [Fr., L'on craint la vieillesse, que l'on n'est pas sur de pouvoir atteindre.]

We hope to grow old and we dread old age; that is to say, we love life and we flee from death.

Without life there can be no action — no objects of pursuit — no restless desires — no tormenting passions. Hence it is that we fondly cling to it — that we dread its termination as the close, not of enjoyment, but of hope.

Why live life from dream to dream, and dread the day when dreaming ends.

After she's gone, another brief lull sets in. This one is probably the last. But what good is a lull? It's only a breathing spell in which to get more frightened. Because anticipatory fear is always twice as strong as present fear. Anticipatory fear has both fears in it at once - the anticipatory one and the one that comes simultaneously with the dread happening itself. Present fear only has the one, because by that time anticipation is over. ("New York Blues")

You achieve strength, braveness and confidence by each experience in which you really halt to search dread during the deal with

All she had ahead of her was the cold water, the slow ballet.

Beauty is a thing of might and dread. Like the tempest she shakes the earth beneath us and the sky above us.

And Quaid knew, meeting the clown's vacant stare through an air turned bloody, that there was worse in the world than dread. Worse than death itself. There was pain without hope of healing. There was life that refused to end, long after the mind had begged the body to cease. And worst, there were dreams come true.

...a redoubtable alchemy was at work behind impenetrable veils as the forest prepared its nocturnal mysteries.

A worm of fear wriggled in Jaden’s stomach, and the ethereal assuredness he channeled moments before evaporated as the worm burrowed deeper. When he next spoke, his own voice of trapped hysteria broke through, the worm having reached journey’s end.

And it is because we all of us know of this sombre power and its perilous manifestations, that we stand in so deep a dread of silence. We can bear, when need must be, the silence of ourselves, that of isolation: but the silence of many - silence multiplied - and above all the silence of a crowd - these are supernatural burdens, whose inexplicable weight brings dread to the mightiest soul.

And the only thing I knew how to do was to hold on as tightly as possible and count every single second until I reached the last one. The one I dreaded most. Sudden, violent, final. The end.

And when the shadow fades and is no more, the light that lingers becomes a shadow to another light.

At twenty-four she imagined with dread that she was growing old.

Behind every summer is a fall just waiting to happen.

But early on I saw this: You are wasting time by suffering twice. I mention this only to show how many things the mind cannot will itself to do, even if it wants to.

But even as she spoke, a feeling of doom crept into her bones, joining the anger and dread already lurking there.

Carla's description was typical of survivors of chronic childhood abuse. Almost always, they deny or minimize the abusive memories. They have to: it's too painful to believe that their parents would do such a thing. So they fragment the memories into hundreds of shards, leaving only acceptable traces in their conscious minds. Rationalizations like "my childhood was rough," "he only did it to me once or twice," and "it wasn't so bad" are common, masking the fact that the abuse was devastating and chronic. But while the knowledge, body sensations, and feelings are shattered, they are not forgotten. They intrude in unexpected ways: through panic attacks and insomnia, through dreams and artwork, through seemingly inexplicable compulsions, and through the shadowy dread of the abusive parent. They live just outside of consciousness like noisy neighbors who bang on the pipes and occasionally show up at the door.

But lurking behind every summer was a fall just waiting to happen.

Confidence is what we get when we take fear, face it and replace it.

Dread is anxiety on steroids.

Dread was always with her, an alarm system in her head, alert to her next disaster. Despite being resigned to a life of misfortune, she became resourceful. She grudgingly noticed that things always worked out, even when she claimed defeat. An inconvenient truth, yet it was right there, in her face, betraying her self-punishments and assumptions. She kept overcoming things, dammit, aggravating herself. She still felt so much joy, despite her efforts to be miserable. Her life was full of miracles and spectacles that she was afraid to rely on so she didn’t know how to enjoy, how to be thankful, without guilt. She didn’t want to win and she didn’t want to lose. Ambiguity intrigued her and she found passion in the gaps between hope and despair.

Danger will come upon us when it will. We can't stop it. We can only try to be prepared. There's no point in looking ahead to that danger and suffering its effects even before it comes to us.

For him, behind every feeling and thought was the sense of the open door leading into nothingness. To be sure, he suffered from dread of many things, of madness, the police, insomnia, and also dread of death. But everything he dreaded he likewise desired and longed for at the same time. He was full of burning curiosity about suffering, destruction, persecution, madness and death.

Even greater than my fear that l was crazy, was my lifelong dread that someone would find out.

He [satan] vies for the bedside position, hopping to be the first voice you hear. He covets your waking thoughts, those early, pillow-born emotions. He awakes you with words of worry, stirs you with thoughts of stress. If you dread the day before you begin your day, Mark it down; your giant has been in your head.

For those who think religious people live in a constant state of fear and quaking, compare Ps 111:10 to Ps 112:7. There, you will find that the person who fears God will not fear anyone, or anything else. This is not living in fear. By choosing one fear, they are liberated from the many fears.

Her laughter was an upbeat song set to a minor key.

I dread the beginning of her new life more than words can tell, but I see some hope for her if she travels - none if she remains at home.

I don’t like it. I would prefer no one else became tied up in this. But some things can’t be helped. War is harsh.” “We’re not at war.” “Yet.

I don't want anything to happen to you. You being hurt...that thought fills me with dread. I can't promise not to interfere, not if I think you'll come to harm." He pauses and takes a deep breath. "I love you, Anastasia. I will do everything in my power to protect you. I cann't imagine my life without you.

I dread having to call the police, as I have no idea if they will send good cop, bad cop, lying cop, incompetent cop, aggressive cop, assaulting cop, corrupt cop, or the worst one of them all, the terminator cop.

I dread to think of a society devoid of love, compassion and humanity.

I forgot to sup annoyance from his glass full of mingled dread and rage Now let me take a small draught of solace from my own little cup full of predicaments! From the poem- Draught

If I were to reduce all my feelings and their painful conflicts to a single name, I can think of no other word but: dread. It was dread, dread and uncertainty, that I felt in all those hours of shattered childhood felicity: dread of punishment, dread of my own conscience, dread of stirrings in my soul which I considered forbidden and criminal.

In cases of distasteful occupation, the second day is generally worse than the first; we return to the rack with all the soreness of the preceding torture in our limbs.

If we always live in constant fear then we might miss the beauty of the moment right now, right here.

Individuals who rate high on the so-called Anxiety Sensitivity Index, or ASI, have a high degree of what's known as interoceptive awareness, meaning they are highly attuned to the inner workings on their bodies, to the beepings and bleatings, the blips and burps, of their physiologies; they are more conscious of their heart rate, blood pressure, digestive burblings, and so forth than other people are.

He'd been at the Glade for roughly twenty-four hours. One full day. And look at all the things that had happened. All the terrible things. Surely it could only get better.

Imagine experiencing pervasive and perpetual sensations of dread and shame, the sort of visceral response that you might have when your body reacts to a physical threat. Envision how distressing it would be if you experienced these exact same feelings after viewing yourself in a reflective surface or a photograph. Imagine what it might be like if your body was the source of extreme feelings of anger, disgust, anxiety, fear, and hopelessness. Try to visualize how it might be if viewing your outward appearance triggered a reaction usually associated with a perilous situation, and how disconcerting it would be if every time you looked at yourself you experienced primal feelings of terror. If you have not had such an experience, it is probably quite difficult to comprehend how it is possible to have such a reaction to one's own body. This, though, is the very tormenting reality for individuals who suffer from body dysmorphic disorder (BDD).

It is good to stay in a peaceful poverty than to stay in a painful wealth.

It's spider season. Every year, right about now, thousands of the godless eight-legged bastards emerge from the bowels of hell (or the garden, whichever's nearest) with the sole intention of tormenting humankind.