J. R. R. Tolkien Quotes

A dungeon horrible, on all sides round, As one great furnace, flamed; yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Serv'd only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all; but torture without end.

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

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hours we have spent This night!

You cried for night - it falls. Now cry in darkness.

"What is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my tale; And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?

It had ceased raining in the night and he walked out on the road and called for the dog. He called and called. Standing in that inexplicable darkness. Where there was no sound anywhere save only the wind. After a while he sat in the road. He took off his hat and placed it on the tarmac before him and he bowed his head and held his face in his hands and wept. He sat there for a long time and after a while the east did gray and after a while the right and godmade sun did rise, once again, for all and without distinction.

In misery's darkest cavern known, His useful care was ever nigh Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan, And lonely want retir'd to die.

Discomfort guides my tongue And bids me speak of nothing but despair.

When I realize that she is gone, perhaps gone forever, a great void opens up and I feel that I am falling, falling, falling into deep, black space. And this is worse than tears, deeper than regret or pain or sorrow, it is the abyss into which Satan was plunged. There is no climbing back, no ray of light, no sound of human voice or human touch of hand.

It is pointless to say that this or that night was the worst of my life. I have so many bad nights to choose from that I've made none the champion.

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

Tragedy is restful: and the reason is that hope, that foul, deceitful thing, has no part in it.

Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe.

But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.

Does the world have nothing inside but sorrow?

Grief seems at first to destroy not just all patterns, but also to destroy a belief that a pattern exists.

These hands which stretch out, implore, beg, then rise to the head in a gesture of calamity.

It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.

Part of every misery is, so to speak, the misery's shadow or reflection: the fact that you don't merely suffer but have to keep on thinking about the fact that you suffer. I not only live each endless day in grief, but live each day thinking about living each day in grief.

To me, death is dark, pain, grief.

I am talking about misery and all of its implications.

Anybody singing the blues is in a deep pit yelling for help.

At the root of everything I write is tragedy.

There is a lot of sadness in America.