Sadness

I don't think of all the misery, but of the beauty that still remains.

We all live in a house on fire, no fire department to call; no way out, just the upstairs window to look out of while the fire burns the house down with us trapped, locked in it.

There's a lot of ugly things in this world, son. I wish I could keep 'em all away from you. That's never possible.

We all have times when we go home at night and pull out our hair and feel misunderstood and lonely and like we're falling.

You know I'd hate to be one of those guys who walks around talking about how miserable their lives are, but the last three years, things that have happened to me, I've never heard about happening to anybody. Ever. It's just been a run of the gambit. So everybody's going like that, see.

For there is nothing heavier than compassion. Not even one's own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels for someone, for someone, pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echos.

Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.

Only optimists commit suicide, optimists who no longer succeed at being optimists.

The great tragedy of life is not that men perish but that they cease to love.

I confess I do not understand. I have parted from my sister. And the mule ran well.

Pure continual old pain the real thing. Want of ability and so stranded as it were.

To sing the sorrow of things is to beautify them.

Love buries us without shroud or coffin.

Though outwardly a gloomy shroud, the inner half of me is composed of light.

Living is a punishment. We are all under sentence of death.

For sorrow there is neither remedy nor consolation, only silence and nothingness.

Life's pit is hell, and happiness is a toy known too late.

It is frightful not to love, what a setback to be unable to love!

Every man of us is, in the long run, sure to go through the same tragic apathy of mind.

All of us are the walking wounded. Every single one of us.