Quotes about Despair

I think that's the graveyard of musicians, playing cabaret. I think I'd rather be dead than work in cabaret. It's just so depressing.

He did not wring his hands, as do Those witless men who dare To try to rear the changeling Hope In the cave of black Despair.

Each narrow cell in which we dwell Is a foul and dark latrine, And the fetid breath of living Death Chokes up each grated screen, And all, but Lust, is turned to dust In Humanity's machine.

O we are wearied of this sense of guilt, Wearied of pleasure's paramour despair, Wearied of every temple we have built, Wearied of every unanswered right, unanswered prayer, For man is weak; God sleeps: and heaven is high: One fiery-colored moment: one great love: and lo! we die.

In the cave of black Despair: He only looked upon the sun, And drank the morning air.

Godly despair cries out for perspective but allows the hollowness of loss to move the heart to seek God.

A veil of insanity everywhere: Oh why I was born in this age? It is a terrible age.

Despair leads to boredom, electronic games, computer hacking, poetry and other bad habits.

That's what they mean by the womb of time: the agony and the despair of spreading bones, the hard girdle in which lie the outraged entrails of events.

and i temporary and he was the saddest word of all there is nothing else in the world its not despair until time its not even time until it was

It is just dawn, daylight: that gray and lonely suspension filled with the peaceful and tentative waking of birds. The air, inbreathed, is like spring water. He breathes deep and slow, feeling with each breath himself diffuse in the natural grayness, becoming one with loneliness and quiet that has never known fury or despair. That was all I wanted, he thinks, in a quiet and slow amazement. That was all, for thirty years. That didn't seem to be a whole lot to ask in thirty years.

Beautiful lives women live—women do. In very breathing they draw meat and drink from some beautiful attenuation of unreality in which the shades and shapes of facts—of birth and bereavement, of suffering and bewilderment and despair—move with the substanceless decorum of lawn party charades, perfect in gesture and without significance or any ability to hurt.