John Milton Quotes

I live in my deepest hell and from there I cannot fall any further.

Hell is no other but a soundlesse pit, Where no one beame of comfort peeps in it.

If I was bound for hell, let it be hell. No more false heaven. No more damned magic.

I guess that's why they call it Hell.

Hell is life drying up.

When he has lost all hope, all object in life, man becomes a monster in his misery.

There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of our sad humanity must assume the aspect of Hell.

I had never seen a woman in such despair before. It was worse than death, it was a constant longing for death and a constant rejection of life. She lived like darkness in her own day.

The dull pain of truth weights my soul, pulling it under. I am left hopelessly awake.

I do suspect that this world is hell.

Hell is indefinite.

I have been to hell and back. I have seen the edge. I have seen the dark side of life.

If there is a worse place than Hell, I must be in it.

How could you not want to draw breath one more day? How could your own life be such a cheap commodity? But then I started to understand: when your existence is hell, death must be heaven.

It is silliness to live when to live is torment.

Each lost soul will be a hell unto itself, the boundless fire raging in its very vitals.

He yearned not to feel... He wished he could rip out his heart, his innards, everything that was screaming inside him.

What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.

Woe to the suicides! I believe that there can be none more miserable than they. Oh, there are some who remain proud and fierce even in hell, in spite of their certain knowledge and contemplation of the absolute truth; there are some fearful ones who have given themselves over to Satan and his proud spirit entirely. For such, hell is voluntary and ever consuming; they are tortured by their own choice. For they have cursed themselves, cursing God and life. And they will burn in the fire of their own wrath forever and yearn for death and annihilation. But they will not attain to death.

My pain is constant and sharp...this confession has meant nothing

Sometimes...you can cry until there's nothing wet in you. You can scream and curse to where your throat rebels and ruptures. You can pray, all you want, to whatever god you think will listen. And, still it makes no difference. It goes on, with no sign as to when it might release you. And you know that if it ever did relent...it would not be because it cared.

Oh! Stars and clouds and winds, ye are all about to mock me; if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as nought; but if not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness.

I have spent my life falling. Not the kind that Tiny's talking about. He's talking about love. I'm talking about life. In my kind of falling, there's no landing. There's only hitting the ground. Hard. Dead, or wanting to be dead. So the whole time you're falling, it's the worst feeling in the world. Because you feel you have no control over it. Because you know how it ends.

And I would often wake up at night and stare widely into the room: Am I in Hell?