I think you ought to know I'm feeling very depressed.

I've been so unhappy for years, so unhappy . . . I don't understand how a human being can be so unhappy all the time and still be alive.

Even if it's deep unhappiness, it's your unhappiness.

I am truly miserable — more so than I like to acknowledge to myself. Pride refuses to aid me. It has brought me into the scrape, and will not help me out of it.

Oh, darling, I've been so miserable.

Should you ask me if I'm happy, I'll answer that I'm not.

Paul here is unhappy because unhappiness is second nature to him but more particularly because he has not the faintest idea of how to bring about his heart's desire. And I am unhappy because nothing is happening. Four people in four corners, moping, like tramps in Beckett, and myself in the middle, wasting time, being wasted by time.

I am now the most miserable man living. If what I feel were equally distributed to the whole human family, there would not be one cheerful face on the earth.

I need love, I've never felt more in need of it than now. I feel so terribly terribly unhappy.

I now know that some people feel unhappiness the way others love: privately, intensely, and without recourse.

Man is unhappy because he doesn't know he's happy. It's only that.

I am one of those unhappy persons who inspire bores to the greatest flights of art.

I am miserable now — not feeling unhappiness, just lack of life coming to me and coming out of me — resignation to getting nothing and seeking nothing, staying behind shell. The glare of unknown love, human, unhad by me, — the tenderness I never had. I don’t want to be just a nothing, a sick blank, withdrawal into myself forever. I just want something, beside the emptiness I’ve carried around in me all my life.

I feel an unhappiness which almost dismembers me, and at the same time am convinced of its necessity