I went to bed and woke in the middle of the night thinking I heard someone cry, thinking I myself was weeping, and I felt my face and it was dry.
Then I looked at the window and thought: Why, yes, it's just the rain, the rain, always the rain, and turned over, sadder still, and fumbled about for my dripping sleep and tried to slip it back on.
Stichwörter: melancholy rain sadness sleep
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I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.
Edgar Allan PoeStichwörter: pain melancholy loneliness addiction drugs drinking alchohol
I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow.
Edgar Allan PoeStichwörter: melancholy
A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyStichwörter: melancholy
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano!
William ShakespeareStichwörter: melancholy loneliness
A melancholy-looking man, he had the appearance of one who has searched for the leak in life's gas-pipe with a lighted candle.
P.G. WodehouseStichwörter: humor melancholy wit depression
I go to sleep alone, and wake up alone. I take walks. I work until I'm tired. I watch the wind play with the trash that's been under the snow all winter. Everything seems simple until you think about it. Why is love intensified by abscence?
Audrey NiffeneggerStichwörter: love melancholy
Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.
Virginia WoolfStichwörter: melancholy night winter sad
Melancholy is sadness that has taken on lightness.
Italo CalvinoStichwörter: melancholy
Melancholia is, I believe, a musical problem: a dissonance, a change in rhythm. While on the outside everything happens with the vertiginous rhythm of a cataract, on the inside is the exhausted adagio of drops of water falling from time to tired time. For this reason the outside, seen from the melancholic inside, appears absurd and unreal, and constitutes ‘the farce we all must play’. But for an instant – because of a wild music, or a drug, or the sexual act carried to its climax – the very slow rhythm of the melancholic soul does not only rise to that of the outside world: it overtakes it with an ineffably blissful exorbitance, and the soul then thrills animated by delirious new energies
Alejandra PizarnikStichwörter: melancholy depression
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