Seneca the Younger Quotes

That was one of the saddest things about people--their most important thoughts and feelings often went unspoken and barely understood.

What cannot be said, will get wept.

I don't say anything and I feel awful. I tell somebody and I feel worse. I'm having trouble finding a middle ground.

Great sorrows cannot speak.

The sorrow which calls for help and comfort is not the greatest, nor does it come from the depths of the heart.

And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.

I sometimes find it half a sin, To put to words the grief i feel, For words like nature,half reveal, and half conceal the soul within.

Silence in love betrays more woe - Than words though ne'er so witty; A beggar that is dumb, you know, may challenge double pity.

Small sorrows speak great ones are silent.

It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

Silence augmenteth grief, writing increaseth rage

I’ve stopped talking because there’s really nothing left to say and there’s this piercing sort of pain where my heart is. Maybe I’m even having a heart attack, but it doesn’t seem worth mentioning.

According to all the experts, it's time for me to talk about what I'm going through... I can't. I'd need a new alphabet, one made of falling, of tectonic plates shifting, of the deep devouring dark.

All the things we don’t say, all the words we swallow, and it makes nothing but trouble.

Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?

Grief remains one of the few things that has the power to silence us.

Words got in the way. The things we felt the hardest--like what it was like to have a boy touch you as if you were made of light, or what it meant to be the only person in the room who wasn't noticed--weren't sentences; they were knots in the wood of our bodies, places where our blood flowed backward. If you asked me, not that anyone ever did, the only words worth saying were I'm sorry.

The thought, when written down, becomes less oppressive, but some thoughts are like a cancerous tumor: you express is, you excise it, and it grows back worse than before.

How could people like these, without words to put to their emotions and passions, manage? They could, at best, only suffer dumbly. Their pains and humiliations would work themselves out in their characters alone: like evil spirits possessing a body, so that the body itself might appear innocent of what it did.

I knew then that the person on the outside was only a shell, a presence to be seen and provoked. Inside was the real me, where my tears joined the tears of all the sad people to form the three waterfalls in the night country.

Tears are often to be found where there is little sorrow, and the deepest sorrow without any tears.

Acting is like racing, you need the same concentration. You have to reach inside you and bring forth a lot of broken glass. That's painful.

hate has no literature: real fear and real hate have no words

The words the happy say Are paltry melody But those the silent feel Are beautiful-.