Joseph Conrad Quotes

Because I can't hit bottom, I can't be saved.

I used to feel like I was drowning. So I stopped trying to swim.

Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

Not merely hope, but any burdensome yearning: ambition, hatred, love (especially love) - how rarely do our emotions meet the object they seem to deserve? How hopelessly we signal; how dark the sky; how big the waves. We are all lost at see, washed between hope and despair, hailing something that may never come to rescue us. Catastrophe has become art; but this is no reducing process. It is freeing, enlarging, explaining. Catastrophe has become art: that is, after all, what it is for.

You can't," I murmured, swallowing the tears back with great effort. "You can't keep saving me, can't keep trying to. It's too late." "No," he said. His heart was in his eyes, and it was ripping mine apart. "Not for you. Never.

Do ye not understand?"he said, in near desparation. "I would lay the world at your feet, Claire-and I have nothing to give ye!" He honestly thought it mattered.

I'm like, over love. Crush, smush. I can't. I'm giving up on love at this point. I'm hoping for a crush. Actually, no. I don't want a crush. I want someone to crush on me.

If I place love above everything, it is because for me it is the most desperate, the most despairing state of affairs imaginable.

You know that day after day of, Oh God what am I going to do with myself feeling? The fear of the emptiness that it implies keeps me going.

The reason why I take my life is because I want to go to my wife and boy. My usefulness in this world is at an end. I can not be satisfied in any business and can not be without their companionship.

It was as helpful as throwing a drowning man both ends of the rope.

I had a nightmare about being on a cruise ship and the ship going down. It was an arduous process of the ship going down and we knew it was going down. There was everyone I know and love on the ship.

The Opera was a very cold film, a hopeless and dark film, no hope, no love.

It felt as if things were literally slipping through my fingers. Things were just streaming away from me. I lost my sense of humor. I'm still looking for that.

Oh! Most miserable wretch that I am! Why have I not learnt how to swim?

Everybody can relate to feeling hopeless, at some point in their life, and everybody can relate to fighting for something that's worth fighting for, and everybody can relate to a person in their life that makes them go, "I don't know why you're here right now," but then, at the end of the day, realizing you'd do anything for them.

Choking with dry tears and raging, raging, raging at the absolute indifference of nature and the world to the death of love, the death of hope and the death of beauty, I remember sitting on the end of my bed, collecting these pills and capsules together and wondering why, why when I felt I had so much to offer, so much love, such outpourings of love and energy to spend on the world, I was incapable of being offered love, giving it or summoning the energy with which I knew I could transform myself and everything around me.

Vows begin when hope dies.

Depression is the flaw in love. To be creatures who love, we must be creatures who can despair at what we lose, and depression is the mechanism of that despair.

In the attic, a warhead no doubt burns. Everything is combustible. Faith burns. Trust burns. Everything burns to nothing and even nothing burns. . . . And when there is nothing, there is nothing worth dying for and when there is nothing worth dying for, there is only nothing.

There's not even room enough to be anywhere/It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.../I was born here and I'll die here against my will/I know it looks like I'm moving, but I'm standing still.

Drowning men, it is said, cling to wisps of straw.

You seemed so desperate, like you might drown if someone didn't save you.

Everything mattered and nothing did, and I was tired of trying to find out how both of those things were true. I was an itch that I'd scratched so hard I was bleeding. I had set out to do the impossible, whatever the impossible might be, only to find out that it was living with myself. Suicide became an expiration date, the day after which I no longer had to try.

And all the time she felt the reflection of his hopelessness in her. She couldn't quite, quite love in hoplessness. And he, being hopeless, couldn't ever love at all.