Not one has shown an iota of fear of death. They want to end this agony.
I dread the promotion part of my job. It’s agony, especially compared to the private, at-home joy of writing. But being a grown-up means doing every part of the larger task.
Writing is agony for me. I work at it eight hours every day, hoping to get six pages, but I am satisfied with three.
Every woman goes through a lot of agony before she decides in favour of her own happiness or that of her children.
First of all, do any of you here think it’s a crime to help a suffering human end his agony? Any of you think it is? Say so right now. Well, then, what are we doing here?
Politics is agony and ecstasy. The highs are amazing. The lows are excruciating.
Love is agony, isn’t it? I’ve been involved with someone for some time now, but it’s all so complicated. It’s never straightforward is it? You meet someone, you fall in love, it’s the most wonderful thing ever but… There’s always something that’s not quite right about love, isn’t there?
I like a character that goes on a journey. A character that has had it all, lost it all, and is trying to get back to just being OK. I love the agony of defeat just as much as I love the thrill of victory.
Writing is agony. I hate it.
Grief is the agony of an instant; the indulgence of grief the blunder of a life.
When a book comes out I wonder if one person will buy it. It’s agony. Of course it’s stupid, but it’s agony.
When people say there is a ‘reason’ for the depression, they insult the person who suffers, making it seem that those in agony are somehow at fault for not ‘cheering up.’ The fact is that those who suffer – and those who love them – are no more at fault for depression than a cancer patient is for a tumor.
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