O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
The flesh, alas, is sad, and I have read all the books.
I'm a little tired of travelling the world, jaded as that may sound.
Cynicism is a sorry kind of wisdom.
There is nothing new on earth / For a person who lives long and experiences much. / In my years of youthful wandering / I have seen crystallized people.
Compton rapper Kendrick Lamar sounds decades older than he is, and it's not necessarily the wear and tear that comes from a rough life; instead, his world-weariness seems to result from years of soul-searching.
There's a tiredness of abstract inteligence, and it's the most horrible of tirednesses. It doesn't weight on you like the tiredness of the body, nor does it worry you like the tiredness of knowledge and emotion. It's a weightiness of the conscience of the world, an inability of the soul to breathe.
The world itself makes us sick of the world.
I am tired to death! tired of every thing! I would give the universe for a disposition less difficult to please. Yet, after all, what is there to give pleasure? When one has seen one thing, one has seen every thing.
They were connoisseurs of boredom. They savoured the various bouquets of the subtly differentiated boredoms which rose from the long, wasted hours at the dead end of night.
Nothing, for the most part, surprises me anymore.
Those who love life do not read. Nor do they go to the movies, actually. No matter what might be said, access to the artistic universe is more or less entirely the preserve of those who are a little fed up with the world.
Me, I was already jaded and tarnished, skeptical that a fantasy world could keep reality at bay.
He had the look of one who had drunk the cup of life and found a dead beetle at the bottom.
I had learned so much about the world that I had decided to withdraw from it.
She is, above all else, tired; she wants more than anything to return to her bed and her book. The world, this world, feels suddenly stunned and stunted, far from everything.
Her last conscious thought was disgust at life; her senses had lied to her. The world was not made of energy and delight but of foulness, betrayal, and lassitude. Living was hateful, and death was no better, and from end to end of the universe this was the first and last and only truth.
As I now feel, I would wish to be borne off anywhere out of this world.
A lot interests me - but nothing surprises me particularly.
While they danced they came over them the weariness with the world, the melancholy, the pity one for the other, which is the exultation of love.
He didn't like very many people any more, or very many things either. He preferred not to be this way, but there it was, he was like that. His cynicism, a veteran's cynicism, was a thing that disturbed him all the time.
Do I run around deploring the world? No. I'm just not into it. I was brought up that way.
It's your eyes. They're ... more serious than they used to be. Like they've seen things they shouldn't have.
He had the unlucky capacity many men have of seeing and believing in the possibility of goodness and truth, but of seeing the evil and falsehood of life too clearly to take any serious part in it.
As the world is weary of me so am I of it.
