I believe that if I should die, and you were to walk near my grave, from the very depths of the earth I would hear your footsteps.
If every day a man takes orders in silence from an incompetent superior, if every day he solemnly performs ritual acts which he privately finds ridiculous, if he unhesitatingly gives answers to questionnaires which are contrary to his real opinions and is prepared to deny his own self in public, if he sees no difficulty in feigning sympathy or even affection where, in fact, he feels only indifference or aversion, it still does not mean that he has entirely lost the use of one of the basic human senses, namely, the sense of humiliation.
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
You might find it difficult to see anything but your own sadness, the way smoke can cover a landscape so that all anyone can see is black. You may find that if someone pours water all over you, you are damp and distracted, but not cured of your sadness, the way a fire department can douse a fire but never recover what has been burnt down.
I don't know whether there is anyone else at all who remembers my noble father with such sadness
If I can't feel, if I can't move, if I can't think, and I can't care, then what conceivable point is there in living?
How else but through a broken heart may Lord Christ enter in?
If I should go before the rest of you Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone, Nor when I'm gone speak in a Sunday voice But be the usual selves that I have known. Weep if you must, Parting is hell, But life goes on, So sing as well.
I think many people kill themselves simply to stop the debate about whether they will or they won't.
Oftentimes. when people are miserable, they will want to make other people miserable, too. But it never helps.
A wise girl kisses but doesn't love, listens but doesn't believe, and leaves before she is left.
I feel a sense of sadness and joy. Mostly sadness though about what I've experienced and sadness about what others have experienced in reference to the stroke.
I sometimes use a lot of light greens and greys when I feel there is sadness in the painting.
It's so curious: one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer... and everything collapses.
A man's sorrow runs uphill; true it is difficult for him to bear, but it is also difficult for him to keep.
We all have sadness in our life and things that we can draw upon
I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
We are born princes and the civilizing process makes us frogs.
Depression is the flaw in love. To be creatures who love, we must be creatures who can despair at what we lose, and depression is the mechanism of that despair.
To die in order to avoid the pains of poverty, love, or anything that is disagreeable, is not the part of a brave man, but of a coward.
Sometimes one has simply to endure a period of depression for what it may hold of illumination if one can live through it, attentive to what it exposes or demands.
I am always sad, I think. Perhaps this signifies that I am not sad at all, because sadness is something lower than your normal disposition, and I am always the same thing. Perhaps I am the only person in the world, then, who never becomes sad. Perhaps I am lucky.
It is loneliness that makes the loudest noise. This is true of men as of dogs.
A Strange melancholy pervades me to which I hesitate to give the grave and beautiful name of sorrow. The idea of sorrow has always appealed to me but now I am almost ashamed of it's complete egoism. I have known boredom, regret, and occasionally remorse, but never sorrow. Today it envelops me like a silken web, enervating and soft, and sets me apart from everybody else.
Grieve not that I die young. Is it not well to pass away ere life hath lost its brightness?
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