Jeffrey Eugenides Quotes

I shall never come to the Punjab again; it is such a hopeless place.

My soul is dead.

I was dead inside.

I still see the world as a place of bitter irony and black humour, failed hopes, dashed plans. I hope to make my work sparer, to outgrow my desire to show off.

It is a curious sensation: the sort of pain that goes mercifully beyond our powers of feeling. When your heart is broken, your boats are burned: nothing matters any more. It is the end of happiness and the beginning of peace.

Loss of hope rather than loss of life is what decides the issues of war. But helplessness induces hopelessness.

It seems as if life and hope must cease together.

There was a moment in my life when I really wanted to kill myself. And there was one other moment when I was close to that. But even in my most jaded times, I had some hope.

I was just tired of losing... Life was passing me by.

Everything I have done has been wasted. In another 20 years France will be dead.

She died and with her died my last warm feelings for humanity.

It is useless to live on burned ruins.

It is the absence of hope, which equals the despair that is the punishment.

When life is woe, and hope is dumb, the World says, "Go!" The Grave says, "Come!

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems; And e'en the dearest--that I love the best-- Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.

Things go away and projects crumble and disappear, or you make your movie and it comes out and no one watches it.

I have no other pictures of the world apart from those which express evanescence, and callousness, vanity and anger, emptiness, orhideous useless hate. Everything has merely confirmed what I had seen and understood in my childhood: futile and sordid fits of rage, cries suddenly blanketed by the silence, shadows swallowed up for ever by the night.

I’ve lived to bury my desires, And see my dreams corrode with rust; Now all that’s left are fruitless fires That burn my empty heart to dust.

Hope is a punishable offense. The verdict is always death; one more death of the heart.

If the truth didn't help anyone, and love didn't last, what was there left to struggle toward?

Crying is right at hand in the smothering dark, closed inside someone else, when you see how everything you can ever accomplish will end up as trash.

And nothing to look backward to with pride, and nothing to look forward to with hope.

And so I leave this world, where the heart must either break or turn to lead (suicide note)

I am afraid of falling into hopeless despair, over my wasted life, and I am still not sure how it happened.

There's a hole in the world Like a great black pit And the vermin of the world Inhabit it ... And it goes by the name of London.