The sort of misery that brings no moral reward, misery that is of no value to the mind and soul, that is the true misery, it is hopeless, bestial and nothing else.

To keep false hopes is to prolong misery.

I was in misery, and misery is the state of every soul overcome by friendship with mortal things and lacerated when they are lost. Then the soul becomes aware of the misery which is its actual condition even before it loses them.

It is not suffering as such that is most deeply feared but suffering that degrades.

In armies, navies, cities, or families, in nature herself, nothing more relaxes good order than misery.

If there is anything that can be crueller than death, it’s nurturing false hope in your heart just to see them crushing every piece of you at the end.

It is always the false that makes you suffer, the false desires and fears, the false values and ideas, the false relationships between people. Abandon the false and you are free of pain; truth makes happy, truth liberates.

But where is the antidote for lucid despair, perfectly articulated, proud, and sure? All of us are miserable, but how many know it? The consciousness of misery is too serious a disease to figure in an arithmetic of agonies or in the catalogues of the Incurable. It belittles the prestige of hell, and converts the slaughterhouses of time into idyls. What sin have you committed to be born, what crime to exist? Your suffering like your fate is without motive. To suffer, truly to suffer, is to accept the invasion of ills without the excuse of causality, as a favor of demented nature, as a negative miracle. . .

For of all the miseries attaching to miserable love, the worst is the misery of thinking that the passion which is the cause of them all may cease.

Pain will force even the truthful to speak falsely.

What misery to be afraid of death.
What wretchedness, to believe only in what can be proven.

Truth here makes Falsehood torment lying tongues.

Maybe your misery is the weapon you brandish in your hatred for those who rose upward while you waited and sank. Maybe your misery is your attempt to prove the world's injustice, instead of the evidence of your own sin, your missing of the mark, your conscious refusal to strive and live. Maybe your willingness to suffer in failure is inexhaustible, given what you use that suffering to prove. Maybe it's your revenge on Being. How exactly should I befriend you when you're in such a place? How could I?

To be pleased with one's limits is a wretched state.