Best 381 quotes in «melancholy quotes» category

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!

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.

Melancholy is incompatible with bicycling.

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.

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

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.

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...

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.

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

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

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!

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-

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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!

‎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.

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

On a certain day in the blue-moon month of September Beneath a young plum tree, quietly I held her there, my quiet, pale beloved In my arms just like a graceful dream. And over us in the beautiful summer sky There was a cloud on which my gaze rested It was very white and so immensely high And when I looked up, it had disappeared.

On each piece of paper I found addresses, telephone numbers, memos of various rendezvous made and kept—or perhaps not kept—people met and remembered, or perhaps not remembered, hopes probably not fulfilled: certainly not fulfilled, or I would not have been standing on that street corner.

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.

Only pain can define the meaning of tears.

Only, it’s not an it. It’s a her. A zombie. A woman. A zombie woman. She’s older than Janine, closer to my age, maybe early thirties, missing a little bit of her face, but otherwise sort of pretty in a melancholy way.

Only a fool will deny that an abundance of flowers can quicken a woman's blood, and that continuing sun can burn years off a man's back. The poverty of life here augments the power of those influences. We lose our vision, and move like wooden toys: one year we wash the curtains, the next we plant a row of cabbages behind the house; and then comes a summer like that one, with grass soft as rabbit fur, and flowers.

Only tears can hear the sound of pain when warm blood reddens discolored stain

Out of a fired ship, which by no way But drowning could be rescued from the flame, Some men leap'd forth, and ever as they came Near the foes' ships, did by their shot decay; So all were lost, which in the ship were found, They in the sea being burnt, they in the burnt ship drown'd.

On the outskirts of our sad savage town, I was overcome by a feeling of profound melancholy, though I fought it off by stuffing a large amount of jasmine essence up my nose.

Pale, with dark hair, the one who is coming is melancholy, romantic. And I am arch and fluent and capricious; for he is melancholy, he is romantic. He is here.

Perhaps she would have liked to confide all these things to someone. But how tell an undefinable uneasiness, variable as the clouds, unstable as the winds? Words failed her—the opportunity, the courage.

[…] on questioning why she looked so sad, she would remark, 'My life has been full of terrible misfortunes, most of which never happened.' 'That's Montaigne, isn't it?' And she would give the tiniest nod. 'I quote others only in order the better to express myself,' she'd say, which was itself, I sensed, another quote.

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.

Poking at the memories, at the guilt she felt over her sister, was like prodding a bear that could wake and consume her at any moment.

-Quand vous regardez le plafond de cette chambre, qu'est-ce que vous y voyez? -L'intérieur de ma tête. -C'est comment? -Opaque.

Sage of old held desire as suffering But suffering is desire as known to me