Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison with the over-compensations of misery.
You’re innocent until proven guilty,
She gave him a strange maternal grin.
For the first time, clearly, the thought surfaced in Paul Sheldon’s mind: I am in
trouble here. This woman is not right.
I drink out of desperation. Life is too dreary to endure. The misery, loneliness, crampedness – they’re heartbreaking…. What feelings do you suppose a man has when he realizes that he will never know happiness or glory as long as he lives? Hard work. All that amounts to is food for the wild beasts of hunger.
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.