Best 381 quotes in «melancholy quotes» category

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.

I thought I would marry my boyfriend and grow old and sick of him. I thought I would keep my friends, and we'd make different, new memories. None of that happened. Better things happened. Then why am I so sad?

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.

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.

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.

It might be high summer all about but inside me everything is fall. The lonesomeness of a sad, slow closing of days, knowing frost is nigh and wind needling through the cabin chinks is just around the bend. That's me, right now.

It's my letter," she began. "I cannot make it right." "Come in, come in," the Prince said gently. "Maybe we can help you." She sat down in the same chair as before. "All right, I'll close my eyes and listen; read to me." " 'Westley, my passion, my sweet, my only, my own. Come back, come back. I shall kill myself otherwise. Yours in torment, Buttercup.' " She looked at Humperdinck. "Well? Do you think I'm throwing myself at him?" "It does seem a bit forward," the Prince admitted. "It doesn't leave him a great deal of room to maneuver.

It was that time of dusk when there is a—deepening of the interior shadows. It is a melancholy time: all you need do is switch on one lamp and the inside and the outside will separate, held apart by the reflections in the glass, and evening will begin.

It sometimes seemed so peculiar and wrong to her that you could be that intimate with someone, to go to sleep with them and wake up with them, to do really quite extraordinarily personal things together on a regular basis, and then, suddenly, you don’t even know their telephone number, or where they’re living, or working, or what they did today or last week or last year... That’s why break‐ups felt like your skin was being torn from your body. It was actually strange that more people weren’t like Saskia, instead of being so well‐behaved and dignified about it.

I wish to cry. Yet, I laugh, and my lipstick leaves a red stain like a bloody crescent moon on the top of the beer can.

I was willing to yield to nostalgia, that melancholy residue of desire.

I want to drown in my tears, And my tears are my prayers.

Listen O’ westward winds,chime a requiem for my languid thoughts,for they are fruitless by the lone hours,and count not my tears, O’ streams in my stupor;and these low melancholy strings, the soul shall tune!

listen thoughtfully sounds of laughter gaiety and melancholy galore

Mais, vrai, j’ai trop pleuré ! Les Aubes sont navrantes. Toute lune est atroce et tout soliel amer: L’âcre amour m’a gonflé de torpeurs enivrantes. Ô que ma quille éclate ! Ô que j’aille à la mer!

Looking back on months and years of intimacy, to feel that your friend, while you still remember the moving words you exchanged, is yet growing distant and living in a world apart—all this is sadder far than partings brought by death.

Many persons will say to such people,"Why do you so pore and muse and gratify the devil?"―whereas it is the very nature of the disease to cause such fixed musings. They might as well say, "Why are you diseased? Why won't you get well?" Their so musing proceeds from a violent pressure on their spirits, which they are not able to remove. Some think that melancholy persons are pleased with their distemper, but I believe that they are as pleased as a man who is lying on thorns or briars, or as one who is thrown into a fiery furnace. It is vastly painful to them to be in this condition, and they cannot be supposed to hate themselves so much as to be fond of pain.

Maybe all Americans who suffer from melancholy act as if they have gone mad. But I truly thought he might throw himself in the river, and I don't want his ghost visiting to keep telling me he's sorry.

Maybe I'm still the same as I was then. I'm just looking out at the world through a crack in a closet door...

Melancholy is incompatible with bicycling.

Melancholia is the disease of the middle-class. The Workers don't know what it means.

Maybe you've understood by now that for men like myself, that is, melancholy men for whom love, agony, happiness and misery are just excuses for maintaining eternal loneliness, life offers neither great joy nor great sadness. I'm not saying we can't relate to other souls overwhelmed by these feelings, on the contrary, we sympathize with them. What we cannot fathom is the odd disquiet our souls sink into at such times. This silent turmoil dims our intellects and dampens our hearts, usurping the place reserved for the true joy and sadness we ought to experience.

Melancholia is, I believe, a musical problem: a dissonance, a change in rhythm. While on the outside everything happens with the vertiginous rhythm of a cataract, on the inside is the exhausted adagio of drops of water falling from time to tired time. For this reason the outside, seen from the melancholic inside, appears absurd and unreal, and constitutes ‘the farce we all must play’. But for an instant – because of a wild music, or a drug, or the sexual act carried to its climax – the very slow rhythm of the melancholic soul does not only rise to that of the outside world: it overtakes it with an ineffably blissful exorbitance, and the soul then thrills animated by delirious new energies

Melancholy is an escape not from reality, but unreality of the world.

Memories come back, pressing in on you, like ghost faces in the darkness pushing up the glass, trying to get into the lit room.

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.

Men who read a lot have a more sensitive disposition, added Fowler. [...] I did not know what to say to this. Maybe reading is a sort of curse is all I mean, concluded Fowler. Maybe it's better for a man to stay inside his own mind. Amen, I felt like saying, although I do not know why.

Me parecía que mi vida estaba condenada a transcurrir en ese lugar solitario y apartado del mundo, en medio de una melancolía impotente de la que no tenía yo ni fuerzas ni ganas de salir.

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

Mistrust of good success hath done this deed. O hateful error, Melancholy's child, Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men The things that are not? O Error, soon concieved, Thou never com'st unto a happy birth, But kill'st the mother that engendered thee.

My dear melancholy, Enraged she's colic! Lovely indeed a fellow And so sweet a collie. Never but so mellow Can she be like a dolly? However she's so frolic! Or could she get yellow Like a peach, but jolly? You'll regret her follies!

Min mors sorg var primitiv og altomfattende: Den sugede ilten ud af luften. En tung, bedøvet fornemmelse fyldte mit hoved og min krop hver gang jeg kom hjem. Ingen af os – hverken min bror eller jeg selv, og da slet ikke min mor – fandt trøst i hinandens selskab. Vi var bare i eksil sammen, fanget i en fælles lidelse. For første gang var jeg bevidst om, at jeg blev grebet af åndelig ensomhed, og jeg kiggede ud på gaden, vendte mig mod de drømmende og melankolske indre anelser, der var blevet den eneste lindring fra det jeg hurtigt opfattede som en tilstand af tab og nederlag.

More often than not, I get lost in magical melancholic emotions and thoughts just to get a vacation from the boring realities of life.

My world is a million shattered pieces put together, glued by my tears, where each piece is nothing but a reflection of YOU.

My sadness is beautiful. It infuses everything I do. It is at the core of my identity and always has been, just as happiness is in some people. I refuse to be told that it's a flaw. I will not mute it with medications for the sake of society. I will hold it close to me and celebrate it rightfully while the rest of the world fails to see it for what it is and it will be their loss.

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.

Neither can you explain yourself to me. Nor can I explain myself to you. You have your sadness and I have mine.

Não conseguia pensar em nada que desejasse especialmente na vida, excepto aquelas faíscas de cor púrpura - aquelas flores de fogo desabrochando selvaticamente -; daria a vida para poder segurá-las-

Nothing is forever, he thought beyond closed eyelids somewhere over Asia Minor. Maybe unhappiness is the continuum through which a human life moves, and joy just a series of blips, of islands in the stream. Or if not unhappiness, then at least melancholy.

night has enveloped, to give me some relief now invisible are walls of separation, and thy grief where blood quenches the thirst disloyalty is faith last and first is the religion my beloved belongs to I beckoned, red and black robed lady with a wand let me take her by the hand heard of her about sorcery her powers useless, and witch now about to succumb from just a gaze of eyes filled with Kohl of Leila my nights worthless, body breathless every moment, feeling restless be silent and hear, hear me, my cries don't forget the promise you swore I have lost my childhood over you don't know, how these years left me alone sufferings, separation, theft me alone I never knew how pain excrutiates sometimes, i enlivened you my dear Love is a blessing, and not a fear in a melancholy cloudy day, I mourn glistening eyes, weeping sky, and heart torn I gaze from a window in Kashmir For a moment, condoling the tragedy, sighing In sombre time, lifeless, as if dying

No one explains this to you, he thought. That there are so many things without solution.

Nothing you did made sense and nothing you’ll ever do.

Night never needs a shade but it requires to fade into the grin of twinkling stars where light is just a glint of scars

Of what are you thinking now?" she asked. "I am thinking of myself." "That's just what I am doing." "Are you also thinking of yourself?" "No, of yourself—of you, Mogens.

Often it’s hard to differ pain and joy, Some give up on differentiating

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.

Often it feels like I am breathing today only because a few years back I had no idea which nerve to cut...

‎Oh, anywhere, driver, anywhere - it doesn't matter. Just keep driving. It's better here in this taxi than it was walking. It's no good my trying to walk. There is always a glimpse through the crowd of someone who looks like him—someone with his swing of the shoulders, his slant of the hat. And I think it's he, I think he's come back. And my heart goes to scalding water and the buildings sway and bend above me. No, it's better to be here. But I wish the driver would go fast, so fast that people walking by would be a long gray blur, and I could see no swinging shoulders, no slanted hat. Dorothy Parker, Sentiment, Harper's Bazaar, May 1933.

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!

O' melancholy,hectic chill for human soul,herewith dismal presence,any spirit does descent.