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Sad Quotes Quotes

Browse 411 quotes about Sad Quotes.

Sad Quotes Quotes

“I think perhaps I will always hold a candle for you – even until it burns my hand. And when the light has long since gone …. I will be there in the darkness holding what remains, quite simply because I cannot let go.”

“Don't pluck a rose's petals and then ask the rose why it is sad.”

“If you’re searching for a quote that puts your feelings into words – you won’t find it. You can learn every language and read every word ever written – but you’ll never find what’s in your heart. How can you? He has it.”

“A cell. An accident. A person who would’ve been miserable anyway. An appointment. A religious order. An expense. A political debate. Anything but a soul. “Why?” I don’t care who fights for my life. I care that they do. They aren’t sure When my life starts, But they tell me when it ends. My body, my rights. Somebody, where’s mine? I wasn’t going to come out As a different thing. So why am I treated Like a different thing? They knew what I’d be,”

“In 1961, a recovering addict was saved by the works of an uplifting novelist. Months later, the man found out his role model committed suicide one morning. Liar, he cried. It was like watching his hero say that heroes don’t exist and then flying away. What do books mean if the writer gave up? The reader decided to give heroism a try and wrote stories about how great life can be until he could convince himself of it. The experiment is still in the works.”

“He thrust his pelvis against his mattress, humping his pillow and thinking of no particular woman or memory, but merely the idea of being touched by someone—anyone. It was a sort of sorrowful pornography, masturbating to the day he would never need to masturbate. He closed his eyes and released on his sheets two fluids of desperation: semen of a lonely man and tears of a lonelier one.”

“He spent decades researching his imagination. During this, he gave up the creation of children, the thrill of romance, and even religion for what he believed to be the most important story he could write. When you read his pages, and knew what was sacrificed, each chapter provided you an obscure timeline of a life he never got to live. The publishers will lie and say it costs twelve dollars plus tax.”

“He clutched the handle of the knife with the same strength the gang members used to kick him. He was worthless, like a crumpled bit of trash thrown, but not worth picking up, that doesn’t even deserve a courteous foot nudge to hide. He was unseen, like the skin beneath the toga of a female statue made of stone. He was ugly, like the damaged face of the deformed stranger you try not to look at because you don’t want it in your memory. He was as soft as the pull-tab of a soda can, as easily broken as a straw wrapper, and as close to death as a baby slug crawling next to a group of kids at summer camp.”

“And then there were his eyes. I couldn’t see him anymore. When I looked at Mitchell, at his black pupils that I swear are brown, there seems to be an emptiness, as if they are eyeballs with no person behind them. It’s like some part of him is lost in sin, or the thousands of parties he has attended, shrooms, or some evil act no soul could recover from.”