Best 873 quotes in «misery quotes» category

It is usually unbearably painful to read a book by an author who knows way less than you do, unless the book is a novel.

It is vikalp (I with wrong belief that ‘I am Chandubhai’) when one gives rise to entanglements himself is vikalp, and sankalp (this is mine) is to dwell in that entanglement.

It is your sole responsibility to protect your peace of mind at all times. Don't allow miserable people to steal your joy. Many of them hate to see others happy and doing well. A lot of them will hate you just for the fact that you refuse to be placed in the shackles of misery with them.

It occurred to us that she and the girls read secret signs of misery in cloud formations, that despite the discrepancies in their ages something timeless communicated itself between them, as though she were advising the girls in her mumbling Greek, "Don't waste your time on life.

It’s a privilege to feel. And misery, my friend, is necessary. Otherwise, happiness would lose its charm.

It seemed to Rosa Lublin that the whole peninsula of Florida was weighted down with regret. Everyone had left behind a real life. Here they had nothing. They were all scarecrows, blown about under the murdering sunball with empty ribcages.

It's my opinion, with some people, just knowing they are alone, living inside of their own miserable, self hating, dysfunctional mind, with their own immature, insecure, self pitying self is its own revenge. Their existence is their karma.

It's okay to be sad, but it's not okay to be ungrateful. Cultivating gratitude is the attitude that makes room for happiness; given the space for happiness to grow, gratitude has a way of surmounting the misery of disaster and adversity, and healing our soul. Take heart, the future is brighter when you look for and seek the light in it.

It was clear to her now, Happiness was a seductive illusion. No one as fucked up as her deserved one drop of joy. But oh god was it delicious when it fell into her lap for a little while. (Such a pretty face) she muses (with such a bruised and battered soul). When the dawn of a promise fades into the dusk of reality, all that remains is the nightmare. Sweet, sweet loneliness. Shadows come to play and prey on her beaten mind. Her lovely little dreams of poison.

It was hope that was the problem. Hoping feelings wouldn't be hurt, hoping love would blossom, that was painful. But committing yourself to misery, that was just a dead feeling. It was pulling the Band-Aid and embracing the pain.

It was never for you, Annie, or all the other people out there who sign their letters “Your number-one fan.” The minute you start to write all those people are at the other end of the galaxy, or something. It was never for my ex-wives, or my mother, or for my father. The reason authors almost always put a dedication on a book, Annie, is because their selfishness even horrifies themselves in the end.

I used to think a drug addict was someone who lived on the far edges of society. Wild-eyed, shaven-headed and living in a filthy squat. That was until I became one...

I've learned from experience that the greater part of our happiness or misery depends on our disposition and not on our circumstances.

I've asked myself again and again whether it wouldn't have been better if we hadn't gone into hiding, if we were dead now and didn't have to go through this misery, especially so that the others could be spared the burden. But we all shrink from this thought. We still love life, we haven't yet forgotten the voice of nature, and we keep hoping, hoping for... everything.

I’ve never been to a funeral until today. I see dazzling arrangements of red, yellow, and purple flowers with long, green stems. I see a stained-glass window with a white dove, a yellow sun, a blue sky. I see a gold cross, standing tall, shiny, brilliant. And I see black. Black dresses. Black pants. Black shoes. Black bibles. Black is my favorite color. Jackson asked me about it one time. “Ava, why don’t you like pink? Or yellow? Or blue?” ”I love black,” I said. ”It suits me.” ”I suit you,” he said. I’m not so sure I love black anymore. And then, beyond the flowers, beneath the stained-glass window, beside the cross, I see the white casket. I see red, burning love disappear forever. As we pull away, my eyes stay glued to the casket. It’s proof that sometimes life does not go on. I look around. If tears could bring him back, there’d be enough to bring him back a hundred times. That’s not what I’m thinking. I’m thinking, I hate good-byes. It’s like I was a garden salad with a light vinaigrette, and Jackson was a platter of seafood Cajun pasta. Alone, we were good. Together, we were fantastic. Memories might keep him alive. But they might kill me.

I've been quite happy. Look, here are my proofs. Remember that I am indifferent to discomforts which would harass other folk. What do the circumstances of life matter if your dreams make you lord paramount of time and space?

i was a prisoner of events

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

I was deluded, and I knew it. Worse: my love for Pippa was muddied-up below the waterline with my mother, with my mother's death, with losing my mother and not being able to get her back. All that blind, infantile hunger to save and be saved, to repeat the past and make it different, had somehow attached itself, ravenously, to her. There was an instability in it, a sickness. I was seeing things that weren't there. I was only one step away from some trailer park loner stalking a girl he'd spotted in the mall. For the truth of it was: Pippa and I saw each other maybe twice a year; we e-mailed and texted, though with no great regularity; when she was in town we loaned each other books and went to the movies; we were friends; nothing more. My hopes for a relationship with her were wholly unreal, whereas my ongoing misery, and frustration, were an all-too-horrible reality. Was groundless, hopeless, unrequited obsession any way to waste the rest of my life?

I was miserable, of course, for I was seventeen, and so I swung into action and wrote a poem, and it was miserable, for that's how I thought poetry worked: you digested experience and shat literature. [from "Mingus at the Showplace"]

I was satisfied that I had done my best. She was insane.

I will say nothing against the course of my existence. But at bottom it has been nothing but pain and burden, and I can affirm that during the whole of my 75 years, I have not had four weeks of genuine well-being. It is but the perpetual rolling of a rock that must be raised up again forever.

I will not dream anymore, you said. I will not set myself up for the pain. But then your team made the playoffs, or you saw a movie, or a billboard glowing dusky orange and advertising Aruba, or a girl who bore more than a passing resemblance to a woman you'd dated in high school— a woman you'd loved and lost— danced above you with shimmering eyes, and you said, fuck it, let's dream just one more time.

Los viajes por el camino del recuerdo nunca son buenos cuando se está deprimido

Living with someone who hates you is—it drives you mad—

Little pictures out of hell.

Love from afar. Ever experienced that misery?” “I always keep love at a distance.

Love is responsible for nearly every kind of insanity in the world though greed, vanity, and pure meanness contribute their portion to general misery.

Love should not be treated as panacea for all happiness and excessive love or love at the wrong place or for wrong people can become a source of tremendous pain and misery.

Lucrurile supreme trebuie să aibă o altă origine, una proprie lor, - ele nu ar putea lua naştere din această lume efemeră, înşelătoare, iluzorie şi mizeră, din această harababură de amăgiri şi pofte!

Maybe awful things is how God speaks to us, Vernon thought, trudging up the lightless tunnel. Maybe folks don’t trust in good things no more. Maybe awful things is all God’s got to remind us he’s alive. Maybe war is God come to life in men. Vernon pushed on toward the light of day. He stepped out onto the ledge and into the heat, and it felt like leaving a theater after the matinee had shown a sad film, the glare of sunshine after the darkness far too real to suffer.

Magnus rolled onto his back and put his feet up on the arm of the sofa. “What do you care if Alec’s miserable?” “What do I care?” Jace said, so loudly that Chairman Meow rolled off the couch and landed on the floor. “Of course I care about Alec; he’s my best friend, my parabatai. And he’s unhappy. And so are you, by the look of things. Takeout containers everywhere, you haven’t done anything to fix up the place, your cat looks dead—“ “He’s not dead.

Maintaining equanimity in misery is called penance (tapa).

Make it a point: stop affirming negativities and start affirming positivities. Within a few weeks you will be surprised that you have a magical key in your hands. For example, if you get sad easily, then every night before you go to sleep affirm twenty times silently, deeply, to yourself but loud enough so that you can hear it, that you are going to be joyous, that this is going to happen, this is already on the way. You have lived your last sadness... good-bye! Repeat it twenty times and then fall asleep.

Making someone responsible for your misery also makes them responsible for your happiness. Why give that power to anyone but yourself?

Many people are the cause of their own misfortune in life, and they either blame the devil for it or hang it on God.

... 'Many waters cannot quench love' was said of divine, not human, love, which the Dean knew was not always tough enough to survive the indifference of misery. That was one of the chief reasons why he struggled to do away with misery.

Maybe it wasn’t the smart thing, but when you lose someone like that? They’re just gone? There’s this hole inside you you’d give anything to fill. You don’t think, you don’t plan, you just pour shit into it, anything that will fill it.

Maybe misery begins everywhere.

Men in the vehement pursuit of happiness grasp at the first object which offers to them any prospect of satisfaction, but immediately they turn an introspective eye and ask, ‘Am I happy?’ and at once from their innermost being a voice answers distinctly, ‘No, you are as poor and as miserable as before.' Then they think it was the object that deceived them and turn precipitately to another. But the second holds as little satisfaction as the first…Wandering then through life restless and tormented, at each successive station they think that happiness dwells at the next, but when they reach it happiness is no longer there. In whatever position they may find themselves there is always another one which they discern from afar, and which but to touch, they think, is to find the wished delight, but when the goal is reached discontent has followed on the way stands in haunting constancy before them.

—Me llamo Annie Wilkes, y soy… —Ya lo sé —la interrumpió—. Usted es mi fan número uno.

Merit Karma (punya) has made one wander in the worldly life. Merit Karma brings together sensual pleasures (of 5 senses), from which arises deceit. Temptation to indulge in pleasure is the reason that gives rise to deceit. And deceit gives rise to the worldly life. Deceit and revengeful enmity is the reason this worldly life remains in existence.

Miseries of a birth.

Misery doesn't like company, misery wants you to itself. It wants to ostracize you from the world so that misery is all you have. It wants to lock you in a dark room, just you, and it, so that all you can think about is how awful you feel and how lonely you are, or would be without misery to share your life with. Misery gives it all to one person; it's clingy, demanding and obsessive. If you try to leave it, it will come after you, stalk you, watch your every move and discover your every weakness. There is no room for any others in a relationship like that.

Misery is the outcome of one's continuous negative evaluations of one's life.

Misery begets equality.

Misery has a top, but no bottom. So you have to climb out.

Misery is a scar on the soul, that if it begins in childhood, it lasts the whole lifetime. I understand that no two scars are alike, but I also ask myself; even if these scars are not alike, aren’t these things engraved on our souls signed by which we know each other?Aren’t we also alike?

Misery loved company, but damnation needed it.

Misery loves good company, so if you are surrounded with drama, gossip and fools you may want to consider that you are presently at risk of becoming one of them.