Sur Sad Quotes

It'll take you eternities to get rid of me,' she adds sadly, which makes me jealous, I want her to say I'll never get rid of her - I wanta be chased till eternity till I catch her.

Tears are shed in my heart like the rain on the town. (Il pleure dans mon coeur Comme il pleut sur la ville.)

You were my last chance' she's said but don't all women say that? - But can it be by 'last chance' she doesn't mean mere marriage but some profoundly sad realization of something in me she really needs to go on living, at least that impression coming across anyway on the force of all the gloom we've shared -

O hell, I'm sick of life - If I had any guts I'd drown myself in that tiresome water but that wouldn't be getting it over at all, I can just see the big transformations and plans jellying down there to curse us up in some other wretched suffering form eternities of it - I guess that's what the kid feels - She looks so sad down there wandering Ophelialike in bare feet among thunders.

Madame V begins the lesson by reading aloud the first stanza of a famous French poem: Il pleure dans mon coeur Comme il pleut sur la ville; Quelle est cette langueur Qui penetre mon coeur? Then she looks up and without any warning she calls on me to translate it. I swallow hard, and try: "It's raining in my heart like it's raining in the city. What is this sadness that pierces my heart?" Saying these words out loud, right in front of the whole class, makes me feel like I'm not wearing any clothes.

The rain is, in a sense, The sole sad friend of those who find themselves Thinking, wide awake, until the dawn, Who, in bed, alone, with fevered hands, Listen to it, soothed. They like the company Of its faint moan across the sleeping plain, Its rustling in the garden all night long. - On the Great Grey Road (Sur ce Grand Chemin Gris...)

People do not belong to others, either. How can the huincas buy and sell people if they do not own them. Sometimes the boy went two or three days without speaking a word, surly, and not eating, and when asked what was the matter, the answer was always the same: "There are content days and there are sad days. Each person is a master of his silence.

Celui-là ne sera jamais Parisien qui n’aura point appris à mettre un masque de joie sur ses douleurs et le « loup » de la tristesse, de l’ennui ou de l’indifférence sur son intime allégresse.

Because a new love affair always gives hope, the irrational mortal loneliness is always crowned, that thing I saw (that horror of a snake emptiness) when I took the deep iodine deathbreath on the Big Sur beach is now justified and hosannah'd and raised up like a sacred urn to Heaven in the mere fact of the taking off of clothes and clashing wits and bodies in the inexpressibly nervously sad delight of love- don't let no old fogies tell you otherwise, and on top of that nobody in the world even ever dares to write the true story of lovem it's awful, we're stuck with a 50% incomplete literature and drama- lying mouth to mouth, kiss to kiss in the pillow dark, loin to loin in unbelievable surrendering sweetness so distant from all our mental fearful abstractions it makes you wonder why men have termed God antisexual somehow- the secret underground truth of mad desire hiding under fenders under buried junkyards throughout the world, never mentioned in newspapers, written about haltingly and like corn by authors and painted tongue in cheek by artists, agh, just listen to Tristan und Isolde by Wagner and think of him in a Bavarian field with his beloved naked beauty under fall leaves.

Signs and wonders, eh? Pity if there is nothing wonderful in signs, and significant in wonders! There's a clue somewhere; wait a bit; hist--hark! By Jove, I have it! Look, you Doubloon, your zodiac here is the life of man in one round chapter; and now I'll read it off, straight out of the book. Come, Almanack! To begin: there's Aries, or the Ram--lecherous dog, he begets us; then, Taurus, or the Bull--he bumps us the first thing; then Gemini, or the Twins--that is, Virtue and Vice; we try to reach Virtue, when lo! comes Cancer the Crab, and drags us back; and here, going from Virtue, Leo, a roaring Lion, lies in the path--he gives a few fierce bites and surly dabs with his paw; we escape, and hail Virgo, the Virgin! that's our first love; we marry and think to be happy for aye, when pop comes Libra, or Scales--happiness weighed and found wanting; and while we are very sad about that, Lord! how we suddenly jump, as Scorpio, or the Scorpion, stings us in rear; we are curing the wound, when whang comes the arrows all round; Sagittarius, or the Archer, is amusing himself. As we pluck out the shafts, stand aside! here's the battering-ram, Capricornus, or the Goat; full tilt, he comes rushing and headlong we are tossed; when Aquarius, or the the Waterbearer, pours out his whole deluge and drowns us; and, to wind up, with Pisces, or the Fishes, we sleep. There's a sermon now, writ in high heaven, and the sun goes through it every year, and yet comes out of it all alive and hearty.

Tristesse plus tristesse, je sais pas si ça fait double ou demi-tristesse. Par certains côtés, ça double. On se dit: et puis quoi encore? qu'est-ce qui va encore me tomber sur la tête? est-ce qu'il y a une limite au chagrin?

...I met a reverend mother once who cried...ah, it's all so sad' - 'What did she cry about?' - 'I don't know, after talking to me, I remember I said some silly thing like "the universe is a woman because it's round" but I think she cried because she was remembering her early days when she had a romance with some soldier who died, at least that's what they say, she was the greatest woman I ever saw, big blue eyes, big smart woman ... you could do that, get out of this awful mess and leave it all behind

Considérez dans son martyre spirituel cet être qui gît les yeux clos, disloqué comme la victime d'un accident brutal qui ne nécessite plus ni attention ni secours. Dénombrez les coups de couteau de la hideuse déception dans l'imagination humaine. Auscultez ce désert songeur où alternent le râle et le silence. Apitoyez-vous sur la douleur qui appelle non seulement la mort, mais une mort disgraciée, et recevez, ô Monde, ce poids de rêve piétiné dans le paradis sans conscience de votre vaine éternité ! -Prière

the whole world’s coming on like a high school sophomore eager to learn what he calls New things, mind you, the same old sing-song sad song truth of death . . . because the reason I yell death so much is because I’m really yelling life, because you cant have death without life,

here I am way below in the Vulcan’s Forge itself looking up with sad eyes—Blanking my little Camel cigarette on a billion year old rock that rises behind my head to a height unbelievable—The little kitchen light on the cliff is only on the end of it, behind it the shoulders of the great sea hound cliff go rising up and back and sweeping inland higher and higher till I gasp to think “Looks like a reclining dog, big friggin shoulders on that sonofabitch

here I am way below in the Vulcan’s Forge itself looking up with sad eyes—Blanking my little Camel cigarette on a billion year old rock that rises behind my head to a height unbelievable—The little kitchen light on the cliff is only on the end of it, behind it the shoulders of the great sea hound cliff go rising up and back and sweeping inland higher and higher till I gasp to think “Looks like a reclining dog, big friggin shoulders on that sonofabitch”—Riseth and sweepeth and scareth men to death but what is death anyway in all this water and rock.

I'll read it off, straight out of the book. Come, Almanack! To begin: there's Aries, or the Ram— lecherous dog, he begets us; then, Taurus, or the Bull— he bumps us the first thing; then Gemini, or the Twins— that is, Virtue and Vice; we try to reach Virtue, when lo! comes Cancer the Crab, and drags us back; and here, going from Virtue, Leo, a roaring Lion, lies in the path— he gives a few fierce bites and surly dabs with his paw; we escape, and hail Virgo, the Virgin! that's our first love; we marry and think to be happy for aye, when pop comes Libra, or the Scales—happiness weighed and found wanting; and while we are very sad about that, Lord! how we suddenly jump, as Scorpio, or the Scorpion, stings us in the rear; we are curing the wound, when whang comes the arrows all round; Sagittarius, or the Archer, is amusing himself. As we pluck out the shafts, stand aside! here's the battering-ram, Capricornus, or the Goat; full tilt, he comes rushing, and headlong we are tossed; when Aquarius, or the Waterbearer, pours out his whole deluge and drowns us; and to wind up with Pisces, or the Fishes, we sleep. There's a sermon now, writ in high heaven, and the sun goes through it every year, and yet comes out of it all alive and hearty. Jollily

SEA” Sounds of the Pacific Ocean at Big Sur “SEA” Cherson! Cherson! You aint just whistlin Dixie, Sea— Cherson! Cherson! We calcimine fathers here below! Kitchen lights on— Sea Engines from Russia seabirding here below— When rocks outsea froth I’ll know Hawaii cracked up & scramble up my doublelegged cliff to the silt of a million years— Shoo—Shaw—Shirsh— Go on die salt light You billion yeared rock knocker Gavroom Seabird Gabroobird Sad as wife & hill Loved as mother & fog Oh! Oh! Oh! Sea! Osh! Where’s yr little Neppytune tonight? These gentle tree pulp pages which’ve nothing to do with yr crash roar, liar sea, ah, were made for rock tumble seabird digdown footstep hollow weed move bedarvaling crash? Ah again? Wine is salt here? Tidal wave kitchen? Engines of Russia in yr soft talk— Les poissons de la mer parle Breton— Mon nom es Lebris de Keroack— Parle, Poissons, Loti, parle— Parlning Ocean sanding crash the billion rocks— Ker plotsch— Shore—shoe— god—brash— The headland looks like a longnosed Collie sleeping with his light on his nose, as the ocean, obeying its accomodations of mind, crashes in rhythm which could & will intrude, in thy rhythm of sand thought— —Big frigging shoulders on that sonofabitch Parle, O, parle, mer, parle, Sea speak to me, speak to me, your silver you light Where hole opened up in Alaska Gray—shh—wind in The canyon wind in the rain Wind in the rolling rash Moving and t wedel Sea sea Diving sea O bird—la vengeance De la roche Cossez Ah Rare, he rammed the gate rare over by Cherson, Cherson, we calcify fathers here below —a watery cross, with weeds entwined—This grins restoredly, low sleep—Wave—Oh, no, shush—Shirk—Boom plop Neptune now his arms extends while one millions of souls sit lit in caves of darkness —What old bark? The dog mountain? Down by the Sea Engines? God rush—Shore— Shaw—Shoo—Oh soft sigh we wait hair twined like larks—Pissit—Rest not —Plottit, bisp tesh, cashes, re tav, plo, aravow, shirsh,—Who’s whispering over there—the silly earthen creek! The fog thunders—We put silver light on face—We took the heroes in—A billion years aint nothing— O the cities here below! The men with a thousand arms! the stanchions of their upward gaze! the coral of their poetry! the sea dragons tenderized, meat for fleshy fish— Navark, navark, the fishes of the Sea speak Breton— wash as soft as people’s dreams—We got peoples in & out the shore, they call it shore, sea call it pish rip plosh—The 5 billion years since earth we saw substantial chan—Chinese are the waves—the woods are dreaming

The sight of the canyon down there as we renegotiated the mountain road made me bite my lip with marvel and sadness. It's as familiar as an old face in an old photograph as tho I'm gone a million years from all that sun shaded brush on rocks and that heartless blue of the sea washing white on yellow sand, those rills of yellow arroyo running down mighty cliff shoulders, those distant blue meadows, that whole ponderous groaning upheaval so strange to see after the last several days of just looking at little faces and mouths of people -- As tho nature had a Gargantuan leprous face of its own with broad nostrils and huge bags under its eyes and a mouth big enough to swallow five thousand jeepster stationwagons and ten thousand Dave Wains and Cody Pomerays without a sigh of reminiscence or regret -- There it is, every sad contour of my valley, the gaps, the Mien Mo captop mountain again, the dreaming woods below our high shelved road, suddenly indeed the sight of poor Alf again far way grazing in the mid afternoon by the corral fence -- And there's the creek bouncing along as tho nothing had ever happened elsewhere and even in the daytime somehow dark and hungry looking in its deeper tangled grass. Cody's never seen this country before altho he's an old Californian by now, I can see he's very impressed and even glad he's come out on a little jaunt with the boys and with me and is seeing a grand sight.

Tandis que le voile de la mort tombait sur lui, Hrathen écarta toutes les questions. Il ne voyait plus que le visage soucieux de Sarène, il ne pensait plus qu'à elle. La femme qui l'avait détruit. A cause d'elle, le gyorn avait trouvé le courage de rejeter les mensonges auxquels il avait cru toute sa vie. Elle ne saurait jamais qu'il l'avait aimée. "Adieu, ma princesse", pensa-t-il. "Jaddeth, prends pitié de mon âme. J'ai fait du mieux que j'ai pu.

Look, when we get there let me handle things, okay?” Isaiah said. “This is what I do.” “I know you got the detective part down,” Dodson said, “but customer relations at this level ain’t the same as finding somebody’s lost dog. You need diplomacy, finesse, and salesmanship. Qualities your surly unpleasant ass is sadly lacking. You lucky you got skills, son, ’cause if you had to survive on your personality you’d be working at the morgue with dead people.” Cal’s

ombre /ɔ̃bʀ/ I. nm (poisson) grayling II. nf 1. (ombrage) shade • 30° à l'~ | 30° in the shade • rester à l'~ | to stay in the shade • à l'~ d'un figuier | in the shade of a fig tree • l'arbre (nous) fait or donne de l'~ | the tree provides shade • tu leur fais de l'~ | (lit) you're (standing) in their light; (fig) you're putting them in the shade • à l'~ de qn/qch (fig) (tout près) near sb/sth; (protégé par) under the protection of sb/sth • rester dans l'~ de qn | to be in sb's shadow 2. (forme portée) shadow • faire/projeter des ~s sur le mur | to make/cast shadows on the wall • avoir peur de son ~ | to be scared of one's own shadow • suivre qn comme une ~ | to be sb's shadow • n'être plus que or être l'~ de soi-même | to be the shadow of one's former self voir aussi: proie 3. [liter] (pénombre) darkness 4. (anonymat, clandestinité) • peintres réputés ou dans l'~ | renowned or obscure painters • laisser certains détails dans l'~ | to be deliberately vague about certain details • agir dans l'~ | to operate behind the scenes • rester dans l'~ | [manipulateur] to stay behind the scenes; [poète] to remain in obscurity; [détail] to be left vague • combattants de l'~ | underground fighters 5. [liter] (trace) hint • une ombre de moustache a hint of a moustache • l'~ d'un reproche/d'un accord | a hint of reproach/of an agreement • une ~ de regret/tristesse passa dans son regard | a shadow of regret/a look of sadness crossed his/her face • sans l'~ d'un doute | without a shadow of a doubt • sans l'~ d'une preuve | without the slightest shred of evidence 6. • l'~ (procédé) shading [u] • faire des ~s | to shade 7. (silhouette indécise) shadowy figure • le royaume or séjour des ~s | the Kingdom of the Shades III. Idiomes 1. mettre qn/être à l'ombre○ | (euph) to put sb/be behind bars (familier) 2. marcher à l'ombre○ | to keep out of the limelight 3. l'homme qui tire plus vite que son ombre | the fastest gun in the West 4. passer comme une ombre | to be ephemeral 5. courir après une ombre | to chase rainbows 6. il y a une ombre au tableau | there is only one thing wrong 7. jeter une ombre au tableau | to spoil the picture (fig) 8. la seule ombre au tableau | the only snag

Je fais déborder la Seine à chacun de mes passages sur ses rives, rebords ou quais. Quand je sanglote, Paris croit qu'il pleut.

[...] elle réalisa sans doute à cet instant que ce ne sont pas les lieux qui s'égarent au fond de notre mémoire, mais notre regard sur eux.

Kad stigosmo u Solun, noć. Na stanici kroz masu sveta pritrčaše nam mnogobrojni portiri, otimajući se o naše stvari, svađajući se o nas, ko će nas pre ugrabiti, odvesti u svoj hotel. I najposle pogodismo se sa onim što vikaše: "Hotel Imperial sur la mer!" Kola su zvrjala dugo po pomračini, kroz neosvetljene solunske ulice, a ja sam bila glupa, zamisli, bilo me strah! A kad osvanu toplo julsko jutro, zahori se Marseljeza i silno pljeskanje. Ja kroz metež, kroz neiskazanu vrevu i graju čaršijsku, čaršijom okićenom zastavama, više belim no crvenim, terajući prodavce, darujući prosjake, uputih se u stari Solun. Po neravnoj kaldrmi, išla sam do Kasumije, i do Aladža-imareta, do Musa-Babina turbeta, čak ispod Šauš-manastira, mimo hamame pokrivene mahovinom i tekije opkoljene grobovima, preko napuštenih turskih grobalja s prebivenim i oborenim nadgrobnim kamenjem, po papratu i strnjici do kolena. I na vrh vrha stadoh da odahnem, okrenuh se: divan, živopisan pogled! Kao amfiteator je stari Solun. Solunski zaliv sav se vidi; razliveno more negde se sija kao suvo zlato, a negde blešti kao rastopljeno srebro; između šarenih kuća dvokatnih s belim i obojenim kafezima, sa sofama i terasama, nad visokim zidovima: stare smokve, zelene loze, crveni šipci, i olanderi, visoki kao kuće, puni cveta, i po koji crni kiparis i belo minare pravo kao strela. Tišina, ni čaršijske graje ni vike prodavaca: bilo bi pusto kao na groblju da po strmim, strašno uskim, negde vrlo kratkim, negde dugačkim ali strašno krivim ulicama nisam srela crne seni...; idu bez lica, i bez glasa. I mislio bi čovek da su to seni umrlih, da čas po čas ne zastanu, da lupnu halkom na kapiji. Ja sam se od te lupe trzala i pogledala u visoke ograde, u guste kafeze. Još ništa nije oboreno, još ništa nije spaljeno: brzo je, tek treća nedelja. Ali te crne seni... to su moje poznanice, turske žene. Još nisu bacile čaršaf, valjda nisu stigle da naprave haljine... A zacelo su razvijene i staroturkinje kao i nove; jer i staroturci, jutros, kad se zasvira Marseljeza, zapljeskaše s mladoturcima. Pa i sad kao dosad da pitam bakalina ili furundžiju: gde sedi ta i ta. Još ni imena ulicama, a kamoli broja kućama. Ta i ta mahala, blizu toga i toga hamama, do te i te džamije "njena kuća: dvokatna, zelena, na jednom joj prozoru kafez malo gušći žuto obojen, a kapija joj pri dnu malo izlomljena." I po takvim znacima nađoh nekolike svoje poznanice i prijateljice, staroturkinje, naravno za koje nisam htela pitati bakalina ili furundžiju. "Hodi, hodi!", hrabrila sam muža, kad lupnuh halkom na kapiji, "sad i ti možeš u harem." Ali iz dvorišta se ču ono stereotipno "Ko je to !" - "Ja." I nasta objašnjavanje, i najposle da se javi hanumi, i još najposle da se vrata odškrinu i da me vidi hanuma. Vide mene, ženu, ali u isto vreme vide i mog muža, čoveka, pa viknu, zalupi kapiju, i, čuh, pobeže! Iz daleka dođe do mene veseo glas: "Uđite, madam!" Dakle, opet sama! Moj muž obori glavu, i - vrati se.

- C'est bizarre que nous, qui sommes sur une île, nous ne mettions pas nos morts sur des barques, la nuit, comme ça la mer les emporterait au loin et nous resterions à regarder les feux qui disparaissent à l'horizon de la vie. - Les cimetières existent parce que savoir que le mort est dans un endroit précis est une consolation. - D'accord, mais quel autre endroit pourrait être plus précis que le cœur ?