H. Rider Haggard Quotes

Thank you for this, Peter. For dry eyes and silent weeping. You taught me how to hide anything i felt. More than ever, i need that now.

On one level, I am a total softie, sort of depressed and afraid of losing the people I love or failing them. To disguise that, there's all this harsh, poop-centric, external swagger, full of nastiness. I'm a cloaking device.

Men are much oftener thrown on their knees by the melancholy than by the agreeable passions.

Beauty, more than bitterness, makes the heart break.

I was trying to heal wounds all the time, whether it meant having affairs or having attitude. I didn't want to show how sad I was.

Just like Pagliacci did, I try to keep my surface hid. Smiling in the crowd I try, but in a lonely room I cry.

Most anger stems from feelings of weakness, sadness and fear: hard to remember when one is at the receiving end of its defiant roar.

My heart's been torn wide open, just like I feared it would be, and I have no willpower to close it back up.

In the lives of the saddest of us, there are bright days like this, when we feel as if we could take the great world in our arms and kiss it. Then come the gloomy hours, when the fire will neither burn on our hearths nor in our hearts; and all without and within is dismal, cold, and dark. Believe me, every heart has its secret sorrows, which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad.

She was not crying Which surprised me very much But I understand now That she had found places For her melancholy That were behind more masks Than only her eyes

To the casual observer it looks like I have moved on since I go around wearing my little happy mask all day. I smile and laugh and carry on like my heart's still in one piece, but beneath it all, I am dying.

There's some sad things known to man, but ain't too much sadder than, the tears of a clown when noones around.

Cities at night, I feel, contain men who cry in their sleep and then say Nothing. It's nothing. Just sad dreams. Or something like that...Swing low in your weep ship, with your tear scans and sob probes, and you would mark them. Women--and they can be wives, lovers, gaunt muses, fat nurses, obsessions, devourers, exes, nemeses--will wake and turn to these men and ask, with female need-to-know, "What is it?" And the men will say, "Nothing. No it isn't anything really. Just sad dreams.

One thing you can't hide - is when you're crippled inside.

I went inside my heart to see how it was. Something there makes me hear the whole world weeping.

Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions, who wallow in sad memories and allow themselves to be provoked this easily - weak people, in other words.

My heart is its own grave!

It's true/ I do imbue my blue unto myself/ I make it bitter.

I was an onion, layers and layers and layers under a thin, papery skin. If anyone had been able to cut me open, my bitter, irritating juices would have stung their eyes, and they would have cried. Although I couldn't cry myself, much at the time. But no one would cut me open.

Mental pain is less dramatic than physical pain, but it is more common and also more hard to bear. The frequent attempt to conceal mental pain increases the burden: it is easier to say “My tooth is aching” than to say “My heart is broken.

We are tired who follow after fantasy and truth that flies: You with only look and laughter stain our hearts with richest dyes.

Inside your own self pity there you swim, in sinking down to drown her voice still haunts you, and only with your laughter can you win.

I wipe away my tears and nod, because the pain in my leg is nothing compare to the one in my heart.

He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.