Christopher Hitchens Quotes

I don't think I can do this anymore.

I'm not choosing, but I'm running out of fight.

Defeat is a thing of weariness, of incoherence, of boredom, and above all futility.

I am fed up. I am fed up with tears and weakness. But there isn't much I can do to stop them.

I am more weary of life, I think, than ever I was.

Dear World, I am leaving because I am bored. I feel I have lived long enough. I am leaving you with your worries in this sweet cesspool. Good luck.

Groan and forget it.

Women get exhausted and beat down, and you just want to cry.

Sadness, irritability, fatigue, and distractedness are among the most common side effects of grief while parenting.

Everyone says I should really savour the last year, play as much as possible, really soak everything in. I'd most like to sit on the bench, or, even better, in the stands.

I've lost a lot. I'm tired of it. It's not fun.

Rightly tired of the pain İ hear and feel, boss... where we's comin from or goin to or why... If İ could end it, İ would. But İ can't.

With drooping shoulders The majority sit hunched, their foreheads furrowed like Stony ground that has been repeatedly ploughed-up to no purpose.

A wave of weariness took him. How could life be so unrelentingly ugly?

I cling to my anger with every ounce of humanity left in my ruined body, but it's no use. It slips away, like a wave from shore. I am pondering this sad fact when I realize the blackness of sleep is circling my head. It's been there awhile, biding it's time and growing closer with each revolution. I give up on rage, which at this point has become a formality, and make a mental note to get angry again in the morning. Then I let myself drift, because there's really no fighting it.

for the first time in my life i realize why hangers are called hangers, because after fifteen minutes of trying things on and throwing them aside, all i want to do is hook one to the top of my closet door, lean my neck into the loop, and let my weight fall.

But suppose you struggle through to the good and find that it also is dreadful? How if food itself turns out to be the very thing you can't eat, and home the very place you can't live, and your very comforter the person who makes you uncomfortable? Then, indeed, there is no rescue possible: the last card has been played.

I'm sorry I let everybody down, I'm fighting just to pay my bills. I don't have the stomach for this anymore... I don't have the desire for it. I feel bad for the people... I wish they could get their money back.

I have been merely oppressed by the weariness and tedium and vanity of things lately: nothing stirs me, nothing seems worth doing or worth having done: the only thing that I strongly feel worth while would be to murder as many people as possible so as to diminish the amount of consciousness in the world. These times have to be lived through: there is nothing to be done with them.

It was like being given a maths problem when your brain's exhausted, and you know there's some far-off solution, but you can't work up the energy even to give it a go. Something in me just gave up.

I'm sick of everything, and of the everythingness of everything.

Evie wanted to cry. From fear. From exhaustion, yes. But mostly from the cruel uselessness, the damned stupid arbitrariness of it all.

I looked at the ceiling and wished this life was over. This unhappy life that had started out so confidently. I thought I would sleep no more that night but eventually I did. In the end we always wear out our worries. That's what Wire man says.

I'm getting really tired of bleeding. Someone stop the world, I want to get off.

As the world is weary of me so am I of it.