Stephenie Meyer Quotes

Life is a cruel, horrible joke and I am the punch line.

How hard could it be? Is it really going to hurt? You get into that deep well of emotion if you are by yourself. Why am I here? What's the point of going on? If I can't do what I want to do, then what's the point?

Did I pray for death? I did one time. I wanted to die so badly. And I didn't want to die. I wanted to rest, you know. And I knew the only rest I would find is in death.

She said she was neither happy nor unhappy, and that was why she couldn't go on. Each person knows the extent of their own suffering, or the total absence of meaning in their lives.

During depression the world disappears. Language itself. One has nothing to say. Nothing. No small talk, no anecdotes. Nothing can be risked on the board of talk. Because the inner voice is so urgent in its own discourse: How shall I live? How shall I manage the future? Why should I go on?

Everybody knows life isn't worth living.

I felt shame - I see this clearly, now - at the instinctive recognition in myself of an awful enfeebling fatalism, a sense that the great outcomes were but randomly connected to our endeavors, that life was beyond mending, that love was loss, that nothing worth saying was sayable, that dullness was general, that disintegration was irresistible.

I crawled back into myself all alone, just delighted to observe that I was even more miserable than before, because I had brought a new kind of distress and something that resembled true feeling into my solitude.

She could not trust herself to hope—but without hope, she realized, she had no reason to go on.

And ask each passenger to tell his story, and if there is one of them all who has not cursed his existence many times, and said to himself over and over again that he was the most miserable of men, I give you permission to throw me head-first into the sea.

In youth, in middle age, and now after many battles, I find nothing in me but corruption.

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

There were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why,--when it did not seem worthwhile to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead; when life appeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like worms struggling blindly toward inevitable annihilation.

I have no idea where my pathetic nature comes from. If I thought about it too long, it would depress me.

When you're in that scene, you really wonder if this is all you're ever going to be. You know how vile and filthy you are inside.

Of course there are times when I think, 'I'd be better out of this.'

Living, it's awful for me.

I think theatre at its best looks into the dark corners; clearly, my dark corners are full of doom.

I'm half alive but I feel mostly dead.

The destructive character lives from the feeling, not that life is worth living, but that suicide is not worth the trouble.

I think I'm much less self confident today. I actually went through a quite painful period because of that thinking that I was completely hopeless. But I think that's something that we all go through at various times of our lives and it was quite a sustained thing with me.

The counterpart of the suicide is the seeker; but the difference between them is slight.

The darkest moments for me weren't necessarily winding up in the hospital or anything like that. It was those quiet moments alone when I just hated the person I had become.