Quotes: 21 total. 1 About.
Sorted by: Words (Ascending)
|Words (count)||99||9 - 351|
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|Date (year)||1809||1308 - 1956|
• Bad Mood Quotes About 6 quotes
• Broken-hearted Quotes About 22 quotes
• Cheerless Quotes About 19 quotes
• Crestfallen Quotes About 1 quotes
• Depression Quotes About 175 quotes
• Desolate Quotes About 267 quotes
• Despair Quotes About 954 quotes
• Despondent Quotes About 13 quotes
• Disconsolate Quotes About 10 quotes
• Dismal Quotes About 78 quotes
• Doleful Quotes About 25 quotes
• Dolorous Quotes About 4 quotes
• Down And Out Quotes About 8 quotes
• Downcast Quotes About 19 quotes
• Downhearted Quotes About 2 quotes
• Feel Down Quotes About 5 quotes
• Feel Low Quotes About 6 quotes
• Feel Sorry Quotes About 44 quotes
• Forlorn Quotes About 83 quotes
• Gloomy Quotes About 152 quotes
• Glum Quotes About 13 quotes
• Hapless Quotes About 35 quotes
• Heartbroken Quotes About 12 quotes
• Heartsick Quotes About 3 quotes
• Inconsolable Quotes About 6 quotes
• Melancholy Quotes About 274 quotes
• Miserable Quotes About 494 quotes
• Moody Quotes About 36 quotes
• Mournful Quotes About 70 quotes
• Regrettable Quotes About 35 quotes
• Sad Quotes About 1020 quotes
• Sadden Quotes About 5 quotes
• Saddened Quotes About 41 quotes
• Sadder Quotes About 34 quotes
• Saddest Quotes About 49 quotes
• Sadly Quotes About 177 quotes
• Sadness Quotes About 191 quotes
• Somber Quotes About 24 quotes
• Sorrow Quotes About 1159 quotes
• Sorry State Quotes About 3 quotes
• Tragic Quotes About 452 quotes
• Unhappy Quotes About 451 quotes
• Unlucky Quotes About 58 quotes
• Woe Quotes About 544 quotes
• Wretched Quotes About 324 quotes
A man used to vicissitudes is not easily dejected.
There, at the moated grange, resides this dejected Mariana.
Never elated while one man's oppress'd; Never dejected while another's blessed.
Never elated when one man 's oppress'd; Never dejected while another 's bless'd.
And amongst us one, Who most has suffer’d, takes dejectedly His seat upon the intellectual throne.
Fear not, for no one can take from us our onward way, by Such an one it is given to us. But here await me, and comfort thy dejected spirit and feed on good hope, for I will not leave thee in the nether world.
To the One doing great and unsearchable things, Wonderful things without number. 10 He gives rain to the earth And sends waters upon the fields. 11 He raises the lowly up high, And he raises up the dejected one to salvation. 12 He frustrates the schemes of the crafty, So that the work of their hands does not succeed. 13 He catches the wise in their own cunning, So that the plans of the shrewd are thwarted. Job 5:9-13
Kalidasa's Vikramorvashiyam is based on the Puranic versions of the love story of king Pururava and celestial nymph Urvashi. However earliest mention of Urvashi is found in the Vedic literature in different contexts. In a Rig Vedic hymn in a dialogue form, Samvad Sukta, the love story of Pururavas and Urvashi is found recorded. In this rather obscure hymn Pururava is portrayed as a glum melancholy dejected lover of a celestial nymph who had abandon him at will.
You must picture me alone in that room in Magdalen, night after night, feeling, whenever my mind lifted even for a second from my work, the steady, unrelenting approach of Him whom I so earnestly desired not to meet. That which I greatly feared had at last come upon me. In the Trinity Term of 1929 I gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt and prayed: perhaps, that night, the most dejected and reluctant convert in all England.
The reason why the publican returned from the Temple justified was that he had got that lowly and self-emptied mind to which the grace of God is welcome. It was not his standing afar off merely, nor his dejected eyes, nor his smiting on his breast, but his despair of himself and his hope in God's mercy — "God be merciful to me a sinner." And you will be justified, too, when, losing all confidence in the flesh, you learn to rejoice in Jesus Christ.
Seems, madam! Nay, it is; I know not "seems." 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath. No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected 'haviour of the visage, Together with all forms, modes, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly; these indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play, But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
Need-love cries to God from our poverty; Gift-love longs to serve, or even to suffer for, God; Appreciative love says: "We give thanks to thee for thy great glory." Need-love says of a woman "I cannot live without her"; Gift-love longs to give her happiness, comfort, protection — if possible, wealth; Appreciative love gazes and holds its breath and is silent, rejoices that such a wonder should exist even if not for him, will not be wholly dejected by losing her, would rather have it so than never to have seen her at all.
You should always cook eggs slowly" was Joan's advice in the kitchen on 118th Street. Joan did everything slowly, Edie reflected; she spoke, walked, dressed and read slowly, as if savoring every moment. She read everything, every newspaper and magazine. She liked the cartoons of William Steig in The New Yorker, particularly the one of the dejected fellow saying, "My mother loved me but she died."'' Joan didn't get along with her mother, and felt that she had nothing in common with her parents' country-club existence. She had rebelled against her background by living the New York City bohemian life.
I get the willies when I see closed doors. Even at work, where I am doing so well now, the sight of a closed door is sometimes enough to make me dread that something horrible is happening behind it, something that is going to affect me adversely; if I am tired and dejected from a night of lies or booze or sex or just nerves and insomnia, I can almost smell the disaster mounting invisibly and flooding out toward me through the frosted glass panes. My hands may perspire, and my voice may come out strange. I wonder why. Something must have happened to me sometime.
We are now faced with the fact that tomorrow is today. We are confronted with the fierce urgency of now. In this unfolding conundrum of life and history there is such a thing as being too late. Procrastination is still the thief of time. Life often leaves us standing bare, naked, and dejected with a lost opportunity. The tide in the affairs of men does not remain at flood — it ebbs. We may cry out desperately for time to pause in her passage, but time is adamant to every plea and rushes on. Over the bleached bones and jumbled residues of numerous civilizations are written the pathetic words, "Too late."
The ascetic priest … keeps the whole herd of dejected, faint-hearted, despairing and unsuccessful creatures fast to life. The very fact that he himself is sick makes him their born herdsman. If he were healthy, he would turn away with loathing from all this eagerness to re-label weakness, envy, Pharisaism and false morality as virtue. But, being himself sick, he is called upon to be an attendant in the great hospital of sinners the Church. He … teaches the patient that the guilty cause of his pain is himself. Thus he diverts the rancour of the abortive man and makes him less harmful, by letting a great part of his resentment recoil on himself. …He mitigates suffering and invents consolations of every kind, both narcotics and stimulants.
I've never had any other loving heartfelt desire. From the minute I heard music I knew why I was born. To make music to play to listen to music, and for some reason I have been lucky enough to llive this beautiful life as a musicisan. I don't know. I love all things "nature". I'm an animal lover, but I don't have the smarts to be a vet, or the heart to have been a vet cause I cry over any wounded animal. … I might have been maybe a zoo keeper helping feed the animals. Feeding or petting the big cats or whatever. I don't know what else I would have done, because I love music too much. For anyone who has that calling and is trying also to make a living at it, it is really hard. Getting gigs and getting listened to. Getting respect, it's hard. Its what bonds us all because we have been so rejected and dejected. Yet we know in our hearts why we are here.
—What did you do today? —Went to the grocery store and Xeroxed a box of English muffins, two pounds of ground veal and an apple. In flagrant violation of the Copyright Act. —You had your nap, I remember that— —I had my nap. —Lunch, I remember that, there was lunch, slept with Susie after lunch, then your nap, woke up, right?, went Xeroxing, right?, read a book not a whole book but part of a book— —Talked to Happy on the telephone saw the seven o’clock news did not wash dishes want to clean up some of this mess? —If one does nothing but listen to the new music, everything else drifts, frays. Did Odysseus feel this way when he and Diomedes decided to steal Athene’s statue from the Trojans, so that they would become dejected and lose the war? I don’t think so, but who is to know what effect the new music of that remote time had on its hearers? —Or how it compares to the new music of this time? —One can only conjecture.
There is a truth, the greatness and the grandeur of which we are accustomed to praise by saying admiringly that it is indifferent, equally valid, whether anyone accepts it or not; indifferent to the individual’s particular condition, whether he is young or old, happy or dejected; indifferent to its relation to him, whether it benefits him or harms him, whether it keeps him from something or assists him to it; equally valid whether he totally subscribes to it or coldly and impassively professes it, whether he gives his life for it or uses it for ill gain; indifferent to whether he has found it himself or merely repeats what has been taught. […] There is another kind of truth or, if this is humbler, another kind of truths that could be called concerned truths. They do not live on a lofty plane, for the simple reason that, ashamed, as it were, they are conscious of not applying universally to all occasions but only specifically to particular occasions. They are not indifferent to the single individual’s particular condition, whether he is young or old, happy or dejected, because this determines for them whether they are to be truths for him.
Am I happy? There are moments when I am overwhelmed by a sense of my success and ease. I become aware that thousands of things which had formerly been forbidden fruit to me are at my command now. I distinctly recall that crushing sense of being debarred from everything, and then I feel as though the whole world were mine. One day I paused in front of an old East Side restaurant that I had often passed in my days of need and despair. The feeling of desolation and envy with which I used to peek in its windows came back to me. It gave me pangs of self-pity for my past and a thrilling sense of my present power. The prices that had once been prohibitive seemed so wretchedly low now. ... And yet in all such instances I feel a peculiar yearning for the very days when the doors of that restaurant were closed to me and when the Canal Street merchant was a magnate of commerce in my estimation. Somehow, encounters of this kind leave me dejected. The gloomiest past is dearer than the brightest present. In my case there seems to be a special reason for feeling this way. My sense of triumph is coupled with a brooding sense of emptiness and insignificance, of my lack of anything like a great, deep interest.
During my first year on the stage at Brünn [1896/97] I conceived the idea of a pilgrimage to Bayreuth, in order to hear and to see the wonders of Wagner's works at the spot dedicated to his memory. I was successful in my application to the management of the Festival for a free pass for the cycle - four nights of The Ring of the Nibelungen and Parzifal, on condition that I sang at an audition held in Bayreuth by Frau Cosima Wagner, who took every opportunity of seeking new talent. [...] I arrived at the gymnasium at noon and sent my card in, with a beating heart. [...] I was ushered in just as they were rehearsing The Rhinegold and a Thor stood on a small platform posing for a photograph, while Frau Wagner was arranging his position, when my card was handed to her. She spelt my name out, did not appear to recognise it — which filled me with misgiving — and asked: "Well, my dear Herr Slezak, what are you going to sing to me?" Being anxious to appear versatile and to show my mettle as a dramatic singer also, I replied-rather guardedly: "'''The I Pagliacci''''' aria." There was general and undisguised dismay throughout the hall, and the director of music, Herr Kniese, gasped, while the Thor on the platform nearly fell off it. Even the attendant who had ushered me in, tottered. Frau Wagner seemed taken aback, but after she had recovered from her astonishment, she rather coldly remarked that it that might be better if I sang something by the Master — if I could sing anything besides Pagliacci'' — what Wagner arias did I know? Thoroughly dejected and realising what an ass I had made of myself, I enumerated Lohengrin, The Flying Dutchman and "Song of Joy" [Mistranslation: Slezak names Froh (literally: joyous), Donner's (Thor's) brother in Rheingold ...] I had to sing the passage : "The bridge leads to the castle," which is wholly in the low register. [...] I was dismissed with the remark that my vocal accomplishments were still rather scanty.