Charles Dickens Quotes

But it's precisely in this cold, loathsome half-despair, half-belief, in this deliberate burying of yourself underground for forty years out of sheer pain, in this assiduously constructed, and yet somewhat dubious hopelessness, in all this poision of unfulfilled desires turned inward, this fever of vacillations, of resolutions adopted for eternity, and of repentances a moment later that you find the very essence of that strange, sharp pleasure.

From the moment I was six I felt sexy. And let me tell you it was hell, sheer hell, waiting to do something about it.

True, I am in love with suffering, but I do not know if I deserve the honor.

A young man is so strong, so mad, so certain, and so lost. He has everything and he is able to use nothing.

A restless spirit who can't reach his goal, can't find a home until I've found my soul.

I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.

How can so much beauty hide such a bruised and steely heart, and why must I love him, why must I lean in my weariness upon his irresistible yet indomitable strength? Is he not the wizend funeral spirit of a dead man in a child's clothes?

Guilt is the most destructive of all emotions. It mourns what has been while playing no part in what may be, now or in the future.

Condemned to violence, arrested by pain. Inside the soul lies a man insane.

Staying with him. Letting him touch you, hold you, GOD. It's eating me alive. You may be keeping Sawyer from hating me but you're only making me hate him

Poetry is a hazardous occupation, very hazardous. There may be bad things in there inside you that maybe you can't handle.

When someone has a very urgent response, I think it just means that it's triggering something in them that they may not necessarily want to think or talk about - which I see as a positive thing.

Don't take my devils away, because my angels may flee too.

In the first few seconds an aching sadness wrenched his heart, but it soon gave way to a feeling of sweet disquiet, the excitement of gypsy wanderlust

A man may be carried on in a constant course of mortification all his days; and yet perhaps never enjoy a good day of peace and consolation.

I never thought before, that there was a woman in the world who could affect me so much by saying so little. But don't be hard in your construction of me. You don't know what my state of mind towards you is. You don't know how you haunt and bewilder me. You don't know how the cursed carelessness that is over-officious in helping me at every other turning of my life WON'T help me here. You have struck it dead, I think, and I sometimes wish you had struck me dead along with it.

Poets often have a conscious awareness that they are struggling with the daimonic, and that the issue is their working something through from the depths which push the self to a new plane.

If one's conscious life is too rigid, too regimented, then the surface may crack at times, and we are unprepared for the strange emotions or sensations we experience.

I have a lot on my mind and not a lot to do so it's going to come out, all of it, and then, then, it may begin to make a sort of sense

I may have looked happy but inside I was hopelessly depressed.

A wave of blood goes up to my head, my stomach shrinks together, as if something dangerous has just missed hitting me. It's as if I've been caught stealing, or telling a lie; or as if I've heard other people talking about me, saying bad things about me, behind my back. There's the same flush of shame, of guilt and terror, and of cold disgust with myself. But I don't know where these feelings have come from, what I've done.

Anger is the noise of the soul; the unseen irritant of the heart; the relentless invader of silence.

I wonder what kinds of songs Preston's father sang to him." Zach raised his eyebrows. "I wonder if he's in a cell humming them to himself right now." I should have said something-done something. He was in a dark place, there in the moonlight. But before I could say a word, Zach took a deep breath and looked up at the fortress. "I wonder if I should join him.

If he looked into her face, he would see those haunted, loving eyes. The hauntedness would irritate him - the love would move him to fury. How dare she love him? Hadn't she any sense at all? What was he supposed to do about that? Return it? How? What could his calloused hands produce to make her smile? What of his knowledge of the world and of life could be useful to her? What could his heavy arms and befuddled brain accomplish that would earn him his own respect, that would in turn allow him to accept her love?