Best 381 quotes in «melancholy quotes» category

Cram them full of noncombustible data, chock them so full of 'facts' they feel stuffed, but absolutely 'brilliant' with information. Then they'll feel they're thinking, they'll get a sense of motion without moving. And they'll be happy, because facts of that sort don't change. Don't give them any slippery stuff like philosophy or sociology to tie things up with. That way lies melancholy.

Credinţa zugrăveşte icoanele-n biserici - Şi-n sufletu-mi pusese poveştile-i feerici, Dar de-ale vieţii valuri, de al furtunii pas Abia conture triste şi umbre-au mai rămas. În van mai caut lumea-mi în obositul creier, Căci răguşit, tomnatec, vrăjeşte trist un greier; Pe inima-mi pustie zadarnic mâna-mi ţiu, Ea bate ca şi cariul încet într-un sicriu. Şi când gândesc la viaţa-mi, îmi pare că ea cură Încet repovestită de o străină gură, Ca şi când n-ar fi viaţa-mi, ca şi când n-aş fi fost. Cine-i acel ce-mi spune povestea pe de rost De-mi ţin la el urechea - şi râd de câte-ascult Ca de dureri străine?... Parc-am murit de mult.

Cut my life into pizzas. this is my plastic fork. oven baking, no breathing, dont give a fuck if its carbs that i'm eating' -Catherine Spann

Cyrano: The leaves--- Roxane: What color---Perfect Venetian red! Look at them fall. Cyrano: Yes---they know how to die. A little way From the branch to the earth, a little fear Of mingling with the common dust---and yet They go down gracefully---a fall that seems Like flying!

Dass man, wenn man sehr müde ist, sagt, man sei todmüde, fiel mir ein, und dass man, wenn man todmüde ist, doch voller Leben ist, und wenn man lebensmüde ist, schon dem Tod nahe.

Death wasn’t something to romanticize. It was something to stave off, to avoid, to fight as long as possible. Even though she had her battles with melancholy, she never seriously considered suicide. Something in her trusted that there would be an upswing and it would be worth waiting for.

Depression is our way of telling ourselves that something is seriously wrong and needs working through and changing.

Depression is melancholy minus its charms.

Despite her words about letting go, melancholy washed over her. Because words are easy and often thrown around with trite intentions.

Det finnes ingen helter. Bare folk som gjør så godt de kan.

Did you know that ninety percent of your average household dust is composed of human epidermal matter? That's skin, to you." Perhaps this explains your sense of Amanda's omnipresence. She has left her skin behind.

Doesn’t it make you melancholy—looking at the stars?

En als de vliegers weg zijn dan is het droefste in uw leven dat ge zooveel menschen hebt gekend, en dat ge die nooit meer zult horen of zien.

Dogs were generally incompatible with melancholy.

...encontré una tacita de porcelana que se había caído de un poste. Recordé que cuando eramos chicos las rompíamos con la honda y eso me dio un poco de tristeza. Sin saber por qué me la guardé en el bolsillo y la fui acariciando con los dedos mientras pensaba en los tiempos del colegio, cuando creía que tenía una vida por delante.

Era un pustiu în mine, fără sfârșit; șuiera vântul, ardea soarele Saharei în mine, mă acoperea nisipul. Era urât și rău în mine, aș fi preferat să mor de o mie de ori ca să nu mai simt pustiul acela.

En un mundo sin melancolía, los ruiseñores se pondrían a eructar.

Es sind tausend Tropfen in einer Welt nur für uns gemacht Tausend Tropfen wenn der Himmel weint und man dennoch lacht

Es war mir unmöglich, die wahre Bedeutung dieser Melancholie zu begreifen, die seine Persönlichkeit prägte und deren Schattenspiel mich faszinierte.

(Episode 9. Hijikata finds Gintoki on a rooftop and challenges him to a duel to avenge Kondo's defeat earlier. Gintoki doesn't want to fight him, so breaks Hijikata's sword easily, and leaves. It's then revealed that Okita and Kondo had been watching them clash, from another rooftop.) Okita Sougou: "He's an interesting man. I'd like to cross swords with him, myself." Kondo: "Don't bother. He'll kick your ass, Sougou." "He's the kind of guy fighting another battle far away, even as a sword swings at his throat." "Fair or unfair, it doesn't matter to him." (Not knowing that Kondo & Okita were watching his duel from a high vantage point, Hijikata lights a cigarette and sits back.) Hijikata (watching the blue sky above him): "Sorry, Kondo-san. I lost to him, as well ...

Et jamais je n’ai senti, si avant, à la fois mon détachement de moi-même et ma présence au monde

Every day it will be the same thing: at dusk I begin to feel melancholy and pensive.

Even the most comic moment contains an element of melancholy; even the deepest tragedy harbors a trace of the ironic.

Even when it seems that there is no one else, always remember there's one person who never ceased to love you - yourself.

For me not to be insane , I had to be either sedated by my “ happy pill” or be activated by my hyper work mode. These were the only two responses my mind was known to react. Everything in between was a mundane distraction. A numb bliss , that annihilated everything rational that ever existed my universe.

For certain, neither of them sees a happy Present, as the gate opens and closes, and one goes in, and the other goes away.

For me not to be insane , I had to be either sedated by my “ happy pill” or be activated by my hyper work mode. These were the only two responses my mind was known to react. Everything in between was a mundane distraction. A numb bliss , that annihilated everything rational that ever existed in my universe.

For the philosopher is right who says that nothing is thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy

For the philosopher is right who says that nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy

He glanced back at his ship, and a sigh escaped his lips, his heart fraught with the appreciation and melancholy that understanding his own situation must evince. His place as Captain of such a crew was as evanescent as the rest of life, and while they were all collected together now, being of the same character, the same mind, having the same predilections and ambitions, there was no saying when it might be over. He might be called away on urgent business, or his crew might grow anxious for a more settled life, Rannig might wish to return home, or the Director of the Marridon Academy might finally rot, calling Bartleby back to Marridon for the promotion he so richly deserved. He exhaled, reveling in the pining sigh of impermanence which living in such uncertainty must produce.

Golden brown syrup light pranced upon his melancholy face. The flickering was somewhat surreal.

Had it been possible for me to fix the plane permanently in the sky, to defy the winds and clouds and all the forces pushing it upward and pulling it earthward, I would have willingly done so. I would have stayed in my seat with my eyes closed, all strength and passion gone, my mind as quiescent as a coat rack under a forgotten hat, and I would have remained there, timeless, unmeasured, unjudged, bothering no one, suspended forever between my past and my future.

Hands that never touch. Lips that never meet. The Almost Lovers, never to be.

He had done nothing on Christmas day, just wandered around outside in the frozen woods. Hard ground, chill winds and bare branches that looked like they'd been dipped in sugar. None of it seemed real, like walking around in a desolate dream, but one he didn't want to wake up from.

Her thoughts were like the moon eclipsing the sun.

Her love was like lavender, delicate and melancholy.

He missed two people: a) the girl she was; b) the person she’d made him feel he might have been. A deep sigh escaped him.

He really had experienced every tiniest increment of time in the four decades since then, and yet here he was surprised to be suddenly old and crippled. Turned out the rope didn't care if you noticed every daisy on the path to the gallows.

Her wave was quite cheerful. But I didn't really want to see her again, if possible.

...her own restless coveting of his love and the slow but sure ebullience of her desire for him; then the Nawab's martydom and her spiritual homelessness and physical loneliness; there was so much, so many portraits and landscapes, like the bright pages of an album of words and pictures. They filled her heart overflowing with the tangy, coppery taste of blood that flows from failure, and pricked her soul with nostalgia, for what was and what could have been. She had never thought that happy memories could come accompanied with so much regret, so much pain, so much repining, and discontent. If you plucked a rose without due care, its thorn pricked you to protest the thoughtlessness and the inconsiderateness you had displayed in taking away its crowning glory. Here, it was nothing else but the rose which was the thorn: its each and every petal was saturated with the scents of the past but it stung like the scorpion plant. But was it possible not to touch those memories? For their scents traveled in and out of your being like breath, and their colours were inside every blink of your eye.

He sank back into his black-and-white world, his immobile world of inanimate drawings that had been granted the secret of motion, his death-world with its hidden gift of life. But that life was a deeply ambiguous life, a conjurer's trick, a crafty illusion based on an accidental property of the retina, which retained an image for a fraction of a second after the image was no longer present. On this frail fact was erected the entire structure of the cinema, that colossal confidence game. The animated cartoon was a far more honest expression of the cinematic illusion than the so-called realistic film, because the cartoon reveled in its own illusory nature, exulted in the impossible--indeed it claimed the impossible as its own, exalted it as its own highest end, found in impossibility, in the negation of the actual, its profoundest reason for being. The animated cartoon was nothing but the poetry of the impossible--therein lay its exhilaration and its secret melancholy. For this willful violation of the actual, while it was an intoxicating release from the constriction of things, was at the same time nothing but a delusion, an attempt to outwit mortality. As such it was doomed to failure. And yet it was desperately important to smash through the constriction of the actual, to unhinge the universe and let the impossible stream in, because otherwise--well, otherwise the world was nothing but an editorial cartoon.

He saw her red eyes filled with tears of anger. "Tell me why this rage?" He asked holding her in his arms. "Why do you fence for yourself so much? She sighed and muttered, "Because all I really want is nothing but to be proved wrong.

He was the great love of her life you know.' 'Oh, dulling,' said my mother, sadly, 'One always thinks that. Every, every time.

His day, usually a jelly-like creature, a shapeless, spineless thing, had attained Mesozoic structure. It was marching along surely, even jauntily, toward a climax, as a play should, as a day should. He dreaded the moment when the backbone of the day should be broken, when he should have met the girl at last, talked to her, and then bowed her laughter out the door, returning only to the melancholy dregs in the teacups and the gathering staleness of the uneaten sandwiches.

Her voice was soft and numinous, as befitted any Aizian singer, yet it was not just bells and melody. There was something else in her tune, a strand of solemnity that no Aizian could possess, for it yearned for something far away, whereas Aizians needed only open their eyes to behold the greatest wonders. Yes, she was in Aizai now, but she hadn’t always been, and for how much longer was impossible to say.

His jaw was slack and his mouth open, and he wondered if perhaps he would drown eventually; drowned by the falling rain.

His life cries for an unknown land of joy; where sadness lingers between border lines His discolored steps towards the decoy misconstrued as the mystery declines From the poem Sonnet For A Man (Part II)

How I hate everything!

Holy things and holy places, out of mind under the cauterizing brilliance of the summer son, reared up now as the winter sun struck from the south, casting shadows coldly upon the avenues where the people followed and went in, wearing winter hearts on their sleeves for the plucking.

Honour looked so much like a child herself, confined to bed, a white nightgown, like one of those maudlin Victorian dolls. Her cheeks were red, like someone had painted them, but I knew it was from rubbing, wiping away her melancholy.