“Nothing comforts me—not the sea, not the sun, not the trees, not people, not movies, not even the clothes I’ve just bought. I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should go and bang my head against the trees, scream, cry… I don’t know.”
— Forough Farrokhzad
“I am terribly tired and utterly exhausted. I am living a meaningless and foolish life. I hate myself and my life. I don’t have even a little strength left.”
— Anton Chekhov, letter to Olga Knipper
I was sitting beside his bed, holding his hand. Not hoping that he would wake up, nor even hoping to hear his voice. Only to make sure there was still some warmth passing between us before it completely faded away.
— Ian McEwan, In Search of Love