We need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.
The point is not that this world is too sad to love or too glad not to love; the point is that when you do love a thing, its gladness is a reason for loving it, and its sadness a reason for loving it more.
A rose looks grey at midnight, but the flame is just asleep. And steel is strong because it knows the hammer and white heat.
I wear my crown of thorns on my liars chair, full of broken thoughts I cannot repair, beneath the stain of time the feelings disappears. What have I become, my sweetest of friends?
Deep in the heart of the infinite darkness, a tiny blue marble is spinning through space. Born in the splendor of God’s holy vision, and sliding away like a tear down his face.
Life is but a sleep disturbed by dreaming, prompted by the will; the saddened soul with sadness hides it’s secrets, and the gay, with thrill.
Often we see a couple who has separated or divorced and look with sadness at the ‘failure’ of their relationship. But if both people learned what they were meant to learn, then that relationship was a success.
If you came to see the truth, the purity, it’s here inside a lonely heart.
There are so many fragile things, after all. People break so easily, and so do dreams and hearts.
This genuine heart of sadness can teach us great compassion. It can humble us when we’re arrogant and soften us when we are unkind.
In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows.
But now the joy is gone and the sadness is back, the sadness feels like something deserved, the price of some not-quite-forgotten betrayal.
The sadness will last forever.
There is a sadness at the back of life which some people do not attempt to mitigate. Entirely aware of their own standing in the shadow, and yet alive to every tremor and gleam of existence, there they endure.
There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.
In deep sadness there is no place for sentimentality. It is as final as the mountains: a fact. There it is. When you realize it you cannot complain.
Experiencing sadness and anger can make you feel more creative, and by being creative, you can get beyond your pain or negativity.
I wanna outrace the speed of pain.
My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes.
Solitude was my only consolation – deep, dark, deathlike solitude.