The gods are strange. It is not our vices only they make instruments to scourge us. They bring us to ruin through what in us is good, gentle, humane, loving.

A happy clown inside spat out a pig-in-a-blanket and yelled at the cute waitress holding the tray. … I had to throw up but other than the banker’s suit forcing its way onto Elise’s face there really wasn’t an appropriate place for it.

I cannot bear it!” said the pewter soldier. “I have shed pewter tears! It is too melancholy! Rather let me go to the wars and lose arms and legs! It would at least be a change. I cannot bear it longer! Now, I know what it is to have a visit from one’s old thoughts,...

She stayed there, in her ball dress, without strength to go to bed, overwhelmed, on a chair, without a fire, without a thought.

Solace of Silencesurreal synapsesof a melancholy dronea dream per chanceshe dared not be alone…

As ofttimes as it rains on my little spot of earth, you’d think I’d grow accustomed to the gloom.

they ask why do i look so sadthey wonder if there is something that makes me madhaven’t they understood it all by now? i’m neither mad nor sadi’m just a poet in a dark outfit i’m just a melancholic soul in a hypocritical worldi’m just an idealistic human with a disgust of reality what’s sadness...

So few things we need to know.And the old wisdoms shudder in us and grow slack.Like renunciation. Like the melancholy beautyof giving it all up. Like walking steadfastin the rhythms, winter light and summer dark.And the time for cutting furrows and the dance

When I say to the moment flying…linger a while-thou art so fair” – Faust

The cloudless day is richer at its close;A golden glory settles on the lea;Soft, stealing shadows hint of cool reposeTo mellowing landscape, and to calming sea.And in that nobler, gentler, lovelier light,The soul to sweeter, loftier bliss inclines;Freed form the noonday glare, the favour’d sightIncreasing grace in earth and sky divines.But ere the purest radiance...

Melancholy is sadness that has taken on lightness.

Es ist ein Unterschied, ob man sterben will oder ob man keine Lust zu leben hat. Wenn man sterben will, dann will man wenigstens etwas. Ich will nichts.

Her voice was soft and numinous, as befitted any Aizian singer, yet it was not just bells and melody. There was something else in her tune, a strand of solemnity that no Aizian could possess, for it yearned for something far away, whereas Aizians needed only open their eyes to behold the greatest wonders. Yes,...

I went to bed and woke in the middle of the night thinking I heard someone cry, thinking I myself was weeping, and I felt my face and it was dry.Then I looked at the window and thought: Why, yes, it’s just the rain, the rain, always the rain, and turned over, sadder still, and...

Often it feels like I am breathing today only because a few years back I had no idea which nerve to cut…

I “dated” one boy and our song was “Faithfully” by Journey. Every time it played my body would turn electric, and I would stare out whatever window I was near and reminisce about experiences I hadn’t had. Is there a word for when you are young and pretending to have lived and loved a thousand...

So many of the loveliest things in England are melancholy.

Cyrano: The leaves—Roxane: What color—Perfect Venetian red! Look at them fall.Cyrano: Yes—they know how to die. A little wayFrom the branch to the earth, a little fearOf mingling with the common dust—and yetThey go down gracefully—a fall that seemsLike flying!

Some pain has no relief,it can only be sealed You can grasp the wound to feel the scar unhealed.

Affection, like melancholy, magnifies trifles; but the magnifying of the one is like looking through a telescope at heavenly objects; that of the other, like enlarging monsters with a microscope.

I wish to cry. Yet, I laugh, and my lipstick leaves a red stain like a bloody crescent moon on the top of the beer can.

Pale, with dark hair, the one who is coming is melancholy, romantic. And I am arch and fluent and capricious; for he is melancholy, he is romantic. He is here.

He was beneath the waves, a creature crawling the ocean bottom.

I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some...

For some nights I slept profoundly; but still every morning I felt the same lassitude, and a languor weighed upon me all day. I felt myself a changed girl. A strange melancholy was stealing over me, a melancholy that I would not have interrupted. Dim thoughts of death began to open, and an idea that...

I felt less unhappy than usual because her melancholy expression, the way the vivid colour of her dress almost cut her off from the rest of the world, made her seem somehow lonely and unhappy, and I found this reassuring.

Then you must reconcile yourself to the fact that something is always hurt by any change. If you do this, you will not be hurt yourself.

Love and happiness are nothing more but distractions.

The lost glove is happy.

Despite her words about letting go, melancholy washed over her. Because words are easy and often thrown around with trite intentions.

Ballade no. 1.

How I hate everything!

But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or if thy...

A melancholy-looking man, he had the appearance of one who has searched for the leak in life’s gas-pipe with a lighted candle.

Cram them full of noncombustible data, chock them so full of ‘facts’ they feel stuffed, but absolutely ‘brilliant’ with information. Then they’ll feel they’re thinking, they’ll get a sense of motion without moving. And they’ll be happy, because facts of that sort don’t change. Don’t give them any slippery stuff like philosophy or sociology to...

What if you wake up one fine morning only to realize that the life you have been living since the last few days was nothing but a dream of yours?Would you go back to sleep then?I wake up each morning only to realize you’re not by my side. And if this emptiness is nothing but...

Maybe all Americans who suffer from melancholy act as if they have gone mad. But I truly thought he might throw himself in the river, and I don’t want his ghost visiting to keep telling me he’s sorry.

When people call it that I always get pissed off because I always think depression sounds like you just get like really sad, you get quiet and melancholy and just like sit quietly by the window sighing or just lying around. A state of not caring about anything. A kind of blue kind of peaceful...

Know ye not that there is here in this world a secret confraternity, which one might call the Company of Melancholiacs? That people there are who by natural constitution have been given a different nature and disposition than the others; that have a larger heart and a swifter blood, that wish and demand more, have...

Only tears can hear the sound of pain when warm blood reddens discolored stain

Hands that never touch. Lips that never meet. The Almost Lovers, never to be.

After much effort to live up to a glorious standard there came fatigue, wan hope, and boredom. I experienced extreme boredom. I saw others experiencing it too, many denying, by the way, that any such thing existed. And finally I decided that I would make boredom my subject matter. That I’d study it. That I’d...

Poor little place,’ he murmured with a sigh.She heard him. He said the most melancholy things, but she noticed that directly he had said them he always seemed more cheerful than usual. All this phrase-making was a game, she thought, for if she had said half what he said, she would have blown her brains...

That sun, that light had faded, and she had faded with them. Now she was as grey as the season itself.

Only, it’s not an it. It’s a her. A zombie. A woman. A zombie woman. She’s older than Janine, closer to my age, maybe early thirties, missing a little bit of her face, but otherwise sort of pretty in a melancholy way.

His day, usually a jelly-like creature, a shapeless, spineless thing, had attained Mesozoic structure. It was marching along surely, even jauntily, toward a climax, as a play should, as a day should. He dreaded the moment when the backbone of the day should be broken, when he should have met the girl at last, talked...

Concha would cry when she found out I was dead, she should have no taste for life for months afterward. But I was still the one who was going to die. I thought of her soft, beautiful eyes. when she looked at me something passed her to me. But I knew it was over: if...

The anaesthetic effect of habit being destroyed, I would begin to think – and to feel – such melancholy things.

Wish in one hand, shit in the other, see which one fills up faster.

I want to kill her and I have been trying since long. But in a way that she could remember my innocence, and would think of my care towards her and i am so much desperate to kill her so that pain sharply pierce through her eye and come out as tears flowing through the...