Best 1597 quotes in «despair quotes» category

For some there is no music No lights No fire No untamed madness that breathes life There is work Anguish Frustration Rage Despair A dullness that rings like wooden thunder

For the normal man, life is an undisputed reality; only the sick man is delighted by life and praises it so that he won't collapse.

For those who have dwelt in depression's dark wood, and known its inexplicable agony, their return from the abyss is not unlike the ascent of the poet, trudging upward and upward out of hell's black depths and at last emerging into what he saw as "the shining world." There, whoever has been restored to health has almost always been restored to the capacity for serenity and joy, and this may be indemnity enough for having endured the despair beyond despair. E quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle. And so we came forth, and once again beheld the stars.

Fortunately, even boundless despair eventually reaches the limits of our body and soul, and slowly blunts itself against them.

Gavriel sat stock-still. Inside him roiled such turmoil that he feared that should he move, he would smash every piece of furniture in the room, crack every pane of every window, until there was nothing but shining splinters where the parlor had been. Instead, he leaned back his head and laughed, a long, cruel laugh that did not seem to belong to the boy Roza had known. It blazed up from deep inside him, from some embers he’d always been careful never to stoke.

George was full of hatred. Of his own weakness and stupidity, of his magic, of the stubbornness and the pride of Beatrice and Marit, and, last of all, hatred of Dr. Gharn, who had started it all. But the hatred swayed to pity. Then to hopelessness. Then back to anger. Every once in a great while, he felt a moment of peace, usually when he caught a glimpse of Beatrice and Marit together. He loved them both in different ways. But that could not be. He turned away, and the cycle began again.

Gifford Ulrich didn’t know the distance from despair to hope, but he knew hope didn’t sleep in alleys.

Geyer and Gary looked at each other and wearily sat down. All the weeks of travel in the hottest months of the year investigating lead after lead, alternating between faith, hope, discouragement, and despair.

..giving into despair was like eating poisonous berries to keep from feeling hungry.

God grant me the strength to endure all things.

God has not yet revealed himself to no one in no unclear terms. Religions are attempts to find him; on that level they are all equal

God is a great healer.

God heals the human heart from any brokenness.

God knows your every need.

God’s grace abounded much more in times of difficulty.

God turned every adversity into boundless blessings

Good. Drink your tea," he ordered. "It will make you feel better." Nothing will make me feel better, she thought, but she drank it down. It was hot and sweet. Mr. Humphreys must have put his entire month's sugar ration into it. She drained the cup, feeling ashamed of herself. She wasn't the only one who'd had a bad night.

Gracious words refresh, restore and revive the soul.

Good things come to us just when we need them the most, like an angel throwing us a life-preserver before we go under the waters of despair.

Great memories really can help overwhelm grief.

Grief is one big, gaping hole, isn’t it? It’s everywhere and all consuming. Some days you think you can’t go on because the only thing waiting for you is more despair. Some days you don’t want to go on because it’s easier to give up than to get hurt again.

Grief You plunge one in many emotions Betrayal, Despair, Depression, Fear, Anger Grief You are more difficult to face than Death Grief Please let my faith stay stronger than you Grief I so wish you eventually lose out to love (Page 58)

Great spirituality, Great soul!

Grumble weakens the spirit. Despair is counterproductive. Both are true toxicants in life.

Hang on! God will strength in any act of your pursuit.

Había escuchado su voz, por primera vez, en la isla donde viajó después de abandonar la empresa; estaba en la playa, sufría pero intentaba desesperadamente creer que aquel dolor tendría un final, cuando vio la puesta de sol más hermosa de su vida. Entonces, la desesperación se abatió sobre él con más fuerza que nunca y descendió al abismo más profundo de su alma, porque aquel atardecer merecía ser visto por su mujer y las niñas. Lloró compulsivamente, y presintió que nunca saldría del fondo de aquel pozo.

Hang on! God will be thy strength in any act of your pursuit.

He opened his mouth. The words were there. He was about to say them when a jolt of terror went through him, the terror of someone who, wandering in a mist, pauses only to realise that they have stopped inches from the edge of a gaping abyss. The way she was looking at him - she could read what was in his eyes, he realised. It must have been written plainly there, like words on the page of a book. There had been no time, no chance, to hide it. “Will,” she whispered. “Say something, Will.” But there was nothing to say. There was only emptiness, as there had been before her. As there would always be. 'I have lost everything', Will thought. 'Everything.

Have the courage to rise from the challenges of life like a phoenix from the flames or you'll get lost in the ashes of despair, pain, and regret.

Having no intercourse with anyone, she lived in the torpid state of a sleep-walker.

He clearly suffers from some past traumas too, so hopefully he'll understand why I was untruthful to him about mine.

He howled in despair as his body was enveloped by a terrifying and sickening darkness.

He looks forlornly ahead of him, gazing at the road but looking at nothing in particular. The whole world is one big giant ball of light to him, and he feels like a bug inside it, waiting to be squashed. He feels like there is no sense of purpose, no direction. There is nothing waiting for him at the end of the rainbow. No pot of gold for all the pain he is feeling now, or the pain he has felt before. He just feels empty and lost, as if he is looking for something that can never be found. He feels lost that he can’t explain it to anyone and that no one will understand. He feels left out, standing alone, waiting endlessly for a ray of hope which never comes. He has suffered through this before, lurking in the shadows of his own despair, fighting for his life and losing the battle. But nothing ever makes this pain go away. Or the fear. He doesn’t fear what people fear. Not the loss of life or riches—Roman fears losing himself in this swamp called existence. He fears becoming the person he doesn’t want to become, and most of all, he fears himself. Fears his own potential to destroy and destruct. To obliterate. To suffocate his own life. He fears all that and he is afraid no one will ever know what his heart aches for, or how bad he has it. At times he feels the urge to tell this to someone, but other times he just enjoys being silent, watching on like a passerby at his own life, an observer rather than someone who’s actually living it.

Her despair grew so great that it burst her breast open and like a bird of fire shattered the stone and broke out into the light of day--the light of day, faint in her windowless room.

Have You Prayed” When the wind turns and asks, in my father’s voice, Have you prayed? I know three things. One: I’m never finished answering to the dead. Two: A man is four winds and three fires. And the four winds are his father’s voice, his mother’s voice . . . Or maybe he’s seven winds and ten fires. And the fires are seeing, hearing, touching, dreaming, thinking . . . Or is he the breath of God? When the wind turns traveler and asks, in my father’s voice, Have you prayed? I remember three things. One: A father’s love is milk and sugar, two-thirds worry, two-thirds grief, and what’s left over is trimmed and leavened to make the bread the dead and the living share. And patience? That’s to endure the terrible leavening and kneading. And wisdom? That’s my father’s face in sleep. When the wind asks, Have you prayed? I know it’s only me reminding myself a flower is one station between earth’s wish and earth’s rapture, and blood was fire, salt, and breath long before it quickened any wand or branch, any limb that woke speaking. It’s just me in the gowns of the wind, or my father through me, asking, Have you found your refuge yet? asking, Are you happy? Strange. A troubled father. A happy son. The wind with a voice. And me talking to no one.

He hated this feeling of free-floating, just drifting from place to place, thought to thought, without any sense of anchor or root.

Help me,” I sobbed. “I beg you, help me.” My eyes burned, but no tears came. I had lost the basic human ability to weep. Human…I am no longer human. “Destroy me. Take pity and send me on my way.

Here is little habit that can make a big difference. Send sunbeams. Intentionally send a word of encouragement or appreciation every day to one person.

Her eyes are grey. Her hair is straggly and wet. Her fingers are stubby. The nails are chewed and broken. Her teeth are crooked, jagged things. There is a vacancy in her gaze, a feeling of absence when you are near her that is impossible to put into words. Her sigil is the hooked ring. One day her hook will catch your heart. Describing her, we articulate what she is and why she is: when hope is past, she is there. She is in a thousand thousand waiting rooms and empty streets, in grey concrete buildings and anonymous hotels. She is on the other side of every mirror. When the eyes that look back at you know you too well, and no longer care for what they see, they are her eyes. She stands and waits, and in her posture the pain no longer tells you to live, and in her presence joy is unimaginable.

He saw either death or the approach of it everywhere. But his undertaking now occupied him all the more. He had to live his life to the end, until death came. Darkness covered everything for him; but precisely because of this darkness he felt that his undertaking was the only guiding thread in this darkness, and he seized it and held on to it with all his remaining strength.

He saw a woman, her face awash with misery, standing in front of him. She was holding a child in her arms and as soon as he looked up at her, she placed the child on his lap. Grief must have withheld her speech. Without saying a word she spread an open palm in front of him.

He's so empty. They tried to stitch him back together, but too much already fell out. Stars and buttons and caramel truffles.

He tore his gaze from the door to eye the medallion at his chest, black and dull, sharply offset by the gold around it and along the chain. She was losing this war, he thought, feeling the dullness of Eleanor Black’s dread swarming against his dead heart where the medallion fell. She was losing it and it did not matter who won: We would cease to be no matter the outcome.

He waited for the black, terrible anger as though for some beast out of the night. But it did not come to him. His bowels seemed weighted with lead, and he walked slowly and lingered against fences and the cold, wet walls of buildings by the way. Descent into the depths until at last there was no further chasm below. He touched the solid bottom of despair and there took ease.

He was a creature of hope. For dreams are hopes, and echoes of hopes. And I am a creature of despair.

Hold fast to your faith. Keep your hope in the Lord. Embrace the love of God.

History was safer than the news, because there was no question of how it would end. ~ "The Briefcase

Hope, in general, is dangerous. Hope can be the loose thread that pulls apart your sanity.

Hope is a fine killing thing.

Hope is a great believe.