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Quote by Jean-Paul Sartre

“This obsessing heart which does not correspond To my language, nor to my customs, And on which encroach, like a clinging-root, Borrowed feelings and the customs Of Europe, feel this suffering And this despair—equal to no other— Of ever taming with words from France This heart which came to me from Sénegal. - Haitian poet”

Quote by Jean-Paul Sartre

Book:Black Orpheus
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Black Orpheus

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Jean-Paul Sartre
Jean-Paul Sartre

Jean-Paul Sartre was a French philosopher, writer, and playwright, born on June 21, 1905, and died on April 15, 1980. He is considered one of the most important philosophers of the 20th century, renowned for his existentialist philosophy. Sartre's works spanned across philosophy, literature, and drama, and had a profound impact on later generations. more

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MotivationAwarenessSelf LoveDespairGiving UpSelf AwarenessDirectionConscious Consciousness
Author:Shellen Lubin
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“In an upper room two women sat looking out at the rain. The younger held the hand of the elder; but in this room also there was silence. They were silent, for they had seen their old life crumble like a swallow's nest in the rain, and they had not yet seen the possibility of any new life rise before them. So they sat and looked at the rain, and it seemed that there was nothing for them to do but go forward forever and ever the rain beating about them, their feet deep down in a drift of dead leaves.”

Despair
Book:The Stickit Minister
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“As long as she lived Stephen never forgot her first impressions of the bar known as Alec's—that meeting-place of the most miserable of all those who comprised the miserable army. That merciless, drug-dealing, death-dealing haunt to which flocked the battered remnants of men whom their fellow-men had at last stamped under; who, despised of the world, must despise themselves beyond all hope, it seemed, of salvation. There they sat, closely herded together at the tables, creatures shabby yet tawdry, timid yet defiant—and their eyes, Stephen never forgot their eyes, those haunted, tormented eyes of the invert. Of all ages, all degrees of despondency, all grades of mental and physical ill-being, they must yet laugh shrilly from time to time, must yet tap their feet to the rhythm of music, must yet dance together in response to the band—and that dance seemed the Dance of Death to Stephen. On more than one hand was a large, ornate ring, on more than one wrist a conspicuous bracelet; they wore jewellery that might only be worn by these men when they thus gathered together. At Alec's they could dare to give way to such tastes—what was left of themselves they became at Alec's. Bereft of all social dignity, of all social charts contrived for man's guidance, of the fellowship that by right divine should belong to each breathing, living creature; abhorred, spat upon, from their earliest days the prey to a ceaseless persecution, they were now even lower than their enemies knew, and more hopeless than the veriest dregs of creation. For since all that to many of them had seemed fine, a fine selfless and at times even noble emotion, had been covered with shame, called unholy and vile, so gradually they themselves had sunk down to the level upon which the world placed their emotions. And looking with abhorrence upon these men, drink-sodden, doped as were only too many, Stephen yet felt that some terrifying thing stalked abroad in that unhappy room at Alec's; terrifying because if there were a God His anger must rise at such vast injustice. More pitiful even than her lot was theirs, and because of them mighty should be the world's reckoning.”

FreedomGayDespairHidingLgbtqPersecutionDesperationGay MenLesbians
Book:The Well Of Loneliness
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“But now, when he thought how regularly things went on, from day to day, in the same unvarying round; how youth and beauty died, and ugly griping age lived tottering on; how crafty avarice grew rich, and manly honest hearts were poor and sad; how few they were who tenanted the stately houses, and how many of those who lay in noisome pens, or rose each day and laid them down each night, and lived and died, father and son, mother and child, race upon race, and generation upon generation, without a home to shelter them or the energies of one single man directed to their aid; how, in seeking, not a luxurious and splendid life, but the bare means of a most wretched and inadequate subsistence, there were women and children in that one town, divided into classes, numbered and estimated as regularly as the noble families and folks of great degree, and reared from infancy to drive most criminal and dreadful trades; how ignorance was punished and never taught; how jail-doors gaped, and gallows loomed, for thousands urged towards them by circumstances darkly curtaining their very cradles’ heads, and but for which they might have earned their honest bread and lived in peace; how many died in soul, and had no chance of life; how many who could scarcely go astray, be they vicious as they would, turned haughtily from the crushed and stricken wretch who could scarce do otherwise, and who would have been a greater wonder had he or she done well, than even they had they done ill; how much injustice, misery, and wrong, there was, and yet how the world rolled on, from year to year, alike careless and indifferent, and no man seeking to remedy or redress it; when he thought of all this, and selected from the mass the one slight case on which his thoughts were bent, he felt, indeed, that there was little ground for hope, and little reason why it should not form an atom in the huge aggregate of distress and sorrow, and add one small and unimportant unit to swell the great amount.”

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Book:Nicholas Nickleby
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