Nothing is miserable unless you think it so; and on the other hand, nothing brings happiness unless you are content with it.
The misery and greatness of this world: it offers no truths, but only objects for love. Absurdity is king, but love saves us from it.
If we do not know ourselves to be full of pride, ambition, lust, weakness, misery, and injustice, we are indeed blind. And if, knowing this, we do not desire deliverance, what can we say of a man…?
Los viajes por el camino del recuerdo nunca son buenos cuando se está deprimido
What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? (Just to give you an idea, Proust’s reply was ‘To be separated from Mama.’) I think that the lowest depth of misery ought to be distinguished from the highest pitch of anguish. In the lower depths come enforced idleness, sexual boredom, and/or impotence. At the highest pitch, the death of a friend or even the fear of the death of a child.
Some people are in misery of carrying the entire world’s pain on their shoulders. They are called writers.
When that bastard calls back, you tell him he’s won this round. I’ll marry him. But I don’t take well to being blackmailed, and tell him I intend to spend the rest of my life making him miserable, got that?
That’s what love is like: mother of the greatest bliss and stepmother of the most tragic misery.
An intelligent person does not take part in the sources of misery which are due to contact with the material senses. O son of Kunti, such pleasures have a beginning and an end, and so the wise man does not delight in them.
I am a solitary wave in the dark and desolate sea: and the sparkling glass I drank was drugged with misery.