Marc Maron Quotes

When even despair ceases to serve any creative purpose, then surely we are justified in suicide.

Nine men in ten are would be suicides.

It got to a point where I didn't care if I lived or I died.

I can't get my wrists to bleed, just don't know why suicide appeals to me.

I would feel real trapped in this life if I didn't know I could commit suicide at any time.

Here's the difficulty about suicide: it is an act of ambition that can be committed only when one has passed beyond ambition.

When one realizes that his life is worthless he either commits suicide or travels.

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

I always wished I had died, and I still wish that, because I could have gotten the whole thing over with.

Delia's arms were inscribed with a grid of self- inflicted wounds, an intricate text of self-loathing

I am not even alive enough to know how to kill myself

I'll put a bullet through my own brain. Let alone wait for stark to do it. Your sister will drive me to it, Howard. No offense.

The debate was wearing me out. Once you've posed that question, it won't go away. I think many people kill themselves simply to stop the debate about whether they will or they won't. Anything I thought or did was immediately drawn into the debate. Made a stupid remark--why not kill myself? Missed the bus--better put an end to it all. Even the good got in there. I liked that movie--maybe I shouldn't kill myself.

…They think of suicide as a quick route to oblivion, an escape. Far from it. It merely alters a person from one form to another. Nothing can destroy the spirit. Suicide only precipitates a darker continuation of the same conditions from which escape was sought. A condition under circumstances so much more painful.

Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.

Because to tell you the truth, most of the time dying seems pretty much like my only means of escape

What is it with me? Am I absolutely nobody, but merely inordinately vain? I do not know…. But I am most fearfully unhappy. That is all. I am so unhappy that I wish I was dead—yet I should be mad to die when I have not yet lived at all.

Kill me, I don't care. I do not want to be on this Earth anymore.

...we ask: Why suicide? We search for reasons, causes, and so on.... We follow the course of the life he has now so suddenly terminated as far back as we can. For days we are preoccupied with the question: Why suicide? We recollect details. And yet we must say that everything in the suicide's life- for now we know that all his life he was a suicide, led a suicide's existence- is part of the cause, the reason, for his suicide.

And the thought of that makes me want to open a vein, experience pain, know I'm alive, despite this living death.

What I really felt like, though, was committing suicide. I felt like jumping out the window. I probably would've done it, too, if I'd been sure somebody'd cover me up as soon as I landed. I didn't want a bunch of stupid rubbernecks looking at me when I was all gory.

I feel as if things are falling apart within me, like so many glass partitions shattering. I walk from place to place in the grip of a fury, needing to act, yet can do nothing about it because any attempt seems doomed in advance. Failure, everywhere failure. Only suicide hovers above me, gleaming and inaccessible.

If wild my breast and sore my pride, I bask in dreams of suicide, If cool my heart and high my head I think 'How lucky are the dead.

One said of suicide, As long as one has brains one should not blow them out. And another answered, But when one has ceased to have them, too often one cannot.

The idea of suicide is of a very set narrative, as if killing yourself is a definitive statement. But it can be just as meaningless as throwing a stone in a river.