166 Mood Quotes

I'm an extremist, I have to deal with my own extreme personality, and I walk the fine line of wanting to die and wanting to be the ruler of it all.

Work a great deal at evening effects, lamplight, candlelight, etc. The intriguing thing is not to show the source of the light but the effect of the lighting.

The mood in which my book was conceived and executed, was in fact to some extent a passing one.

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hours we have spent This night!

This damned ranting about doom. Is that food for the minds of modern people? Do they really expect us to take them seriously?

Nobody ever grew despondent looking for trouble.

I feel some part of me can wake up and be very existential and the next day wake up and be sort of in love with the universe.

Humor is just another defense against the universe.

As the moral gloom of the world overpowers all systematic gaiety, even so was their home of wild mirth made desolate amid the sad forest.

A fit of laughter, which has been indulged to excess, almost always produces a violent reaction.

Why don't you get out of that wet coat and into a dry martini?

Spring is nature's way of saying, 'Let's party!'

It was a Sunday afternoon, wet and cheerless; and a duller spectacle this earth of ours has not to show than a rainy Sunday in London.

Like many popular best-sellers, he was a very sad and solemn man who took himself too seriously and his art not seriously enough.

The gray silence, the gray waves, the gray wastes of the sea.

There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.

Most of the time I don't have much fun. The rest of the time I don't have any fun at all.

People always called The Cure gloomy, but listening to The Cure made me happy. There was something about the gloominess that gave me comfort, and I think we're the same way.

'You all look like happy campers to me. Happy campers you are, happy campers you have been, and, as far as I am concerned, happy campers you will always be.'

During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country, and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher.

The moods of sadness that come over anyone who takes up art... these dismal moods have very little compensation.

In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.

A gloomy guest fits not a wedding feast.

I have remarked very clearly that I am often of one opinion when I am lying down and of another when I am standing up.

Hence, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy.

'I'm the happiest the saddest guy in the world can be.'

I am free of all prejudice. I hate everyone equally.

Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.

April, April, Laugh thy girlish laughter; Then, the moment after, Weep thy girlish tears!

A cheerful life is what the Muses love, A soaring spirit is their prime delight.

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

As it is so strangely ordained in this world, what is amusing will turn into being gloomy, if you stand too long before it, and then God knows what ideas may not stray into the mind... Why is it that even in moments of unthinking, careless gaiety a different and strange mood comes upon one?

Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth.

'Goodness,' I babbled, 'but how awful for you. Not drinking, I mean. I mean, imagine getting up in the morning knowing that you're not going to feel any better all day'.

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member- No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds- November!

Good humour may be said to be one of the very best articles of dress one can wear in society.

A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company.

Don't worry, be happy.

In the course of reading he became more and more melancholy and finally became completely gloomy. When the reading was over he uttered in a voice full of sorrow: 'Goodness, how sad is our Russia!'

MANKIND: 'Rock, what I'm about to do is show the millions--' THE ROCK: (Rock holds out his hand to stop Mankind) 'Don't you EVER do that again.' LAWLER: 'Gimmick infringement!'

Some days are diamonds. Some days are rocks.

In my yellow room, sunflowers with purple eyes stand out against a yellow background; the ends of their stalks bathe in a yellow pot on a yellow table. In one corner of the painting, the painter's signature: Vincent. And the yellow sun, coming through the yellow curtains of my room, floods all this flowering with gold, and in the morning, when I wake up in my bed, I have the impression that it all smells very good. Oh yes! he loved yellow, did good Vincent, the painter from Holland, gleams of sunlight warming his soul, which detested fog. A craving for warmth. When the two of us were together in Arles, both of us insane, and constantly at war over beautiful colors, I adored red; where could I find a perfect vermilion? He, taking his yellowest brush, wrote on the suddenly purple wall: I am of sound mind, I am the Holy Ghost.

'Good morning, Pooh Bear', said Eeyore gloomily. 'If it is a good morning', he said. 'Which I doubt', said he.

Like all weddings it had left the strange feeling of futility, the slight sense of depression that comes to English people who have tried, from their strong sense of tradition, to be festive and sentimental and in high spirits too early in the day. The frame of mind supposed to be appropriate to an afternoon wedding can only be genuinely experienced by an Englishman at two o'clock in the morning.

You've stumped me, and that makes me grouchy all the livelong day.

'I see . . .' said the vampire thoughtfully, and slowly he walked across the room towards the window. [first line]

One afternoon in early January, the weather showed a lack of character. There was no frost nor wind: the trees in the garden did not stir.

The house was a rambling affair. It had few windows, and such as there were did not open, were unbreakable and admitted no light. Darkness lay everywhere; illumination from an invisible source followed one's entry into a room - the black had to be entered before it faded. Every room was furnished, but with odd pieces that bore little relation to each other, as if there was no purpose for the room. Rooms equipped for purposeless beings have that air about them.

That vague kind of penitence which holidays awaken next morning.

From some, the light was scarcely more than a gloom: From some, a dazzling desire.

Over the darkened city, the city of towers, The city of a thousand gates, Over the gleaming terraced roofs, the huddled towers, Over a somnolent whisper of loves and hates, The slow wind flows, drearily streams and falls, With a mournful sound down rain-dark walls.

The size of the universe is no more depressing than the size of a cow.

The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crisped and sere - The leaves they were withering and sere; It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year.

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, And tempted her out of her gloom.

'I don't intend to write depressing songs and I'd probably rather write happy ones'

I'm going out now like a baby A naive unsatisfiable baby Grabbing onto whatever's around For the soaring high or the crushing down With hidden cracks that don't show, but that constantly just grow.

Delacroix, lac de sang hante des mauvaises anges, Ombrages par un bois de sapins toujours vert, Ou, sous un ciel chagrin, des fanfares etranges Passent, comme un soupir etouffe de Weber.

I never read a reply by Shaw that did not leave me in better and not worse temper or frame of mind; which did not seem to come out of inexhaustible fountains of fairmindedness and intellectual geniality; which did not savor somehow of that native largeness which the philosophers attributed to Magnanimous Man.

I shall not sing a May song. A May song should be gay. I'll wait until November And sing a song of gray.

Existential Sadness in H.P. Lovecraft's 'The Outsider'

Sometimes I'm happy sometimes I'm blue my disposition depends on you.

She contrived to twist her body into first one luxurious position, then another.

See, Winter comes to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad.

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful jollity, Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, Nods and becks and wreathed smiles.

His name was Jermyn, and he dodged all day long about the galley drying his handkerchief before the stove. Apparently he never slept. He was a dismal man, with a perpetual tear sparkling at the end of his nose, who either had been in trouble, or was in trouble, or expected to be in trouble - couldn't be happy unless something went wrong. He mistrusted my youth, my common-sense, and my seamanship, and made a point of showing it in a hundred little ways. I dare say he was right. It seems to me I knew very little then, and I know not much more now; but I cherish a hate for that Jermyn to this day.

'I feel goofy tonight. I had a pixie stick before the show.'

When Dawn strides out to wake a dewy farm Across green fields and yellow hills of hay The little twittering birds laugh in his way And poise triumphant on his shining arm. He bears a sword of flame but not to harm The wakened life that feels his quickening sway And barnyard voices shrilling 'It is day!' Take by his grace a new and alien charm. But in the city, like a wounded thing That limps to cover from the angry chase, He steals down streets where sickly arc-lights sing, And wanly mock his young and shameful face; And tiny gongs with cruel fervor ring In many a high and dreary sleeping place.

Emma's come down. She's stopped the light Shining out of her eyes.

The album Never for Ever came next and starts in happy mood, with a summer night of a cha-cha-cha tribute to a new-found hero, 'Delius'. The philosophic All We Ever Look For creates a remarkable and rare mood of reassurance and upbeat resignation, a Bush specialty . . . The end comes in the horrifying 'Breathing', a vision of the nuclear holocaust through the eyes of an unborn child.

It's a really nice day, isn't it?

Some days hang over Manhatten like a huge pair of unseen pincers, slowly squeezing the city until you can hardly breathe. A low growl of thunder echoed up the cavern of Fith Avenue and I looked up to where the sky started at the seventy-first floor of the Empire State Building. I could smell the rain. It was the kind that hung above the orderly piles of concrete until it was soaked with dust and debris and when it came down it wasn't rain at all but the sweat of the city.

Never was he seen languid or exhausted, never out of spirits or out of humor.

He was of a sanguine complexion, naturally of such a vivacity, hilarity and alacrity as another man is when he hath drunken a cup too much.

The world seemed cruel and boring, and I'm not sure which was worse.

Uccello cello cello I love myself.

I felt weak, perhaps I was.

Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning Beneath dark clouds along the horizon rolled, Till the slant sunbeams through the fringes raining Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold.

All the world is sad and dreary, Everywhere I roam.

(Audience member): What's your mood watch say?

Considering his position he became wonderfully free from the chronic melancholy which is taking hold of the civilized races with the decline of belief in a beneficent Power.

Restless sleep twisted dreams. Moving targets silent screams. Restless city restless street. Restless you restless me.

There's rain on the road and the faithful have gone. In a crowd all alone walking 'round in a song.

Above the building, the sky recalled passages from Les Miserables, threadbare and gray.

It ain't a fit night out for man or beast. (From one of his 'short' films, followed by opening the door and having snow flung in his face.)

She walked upon the grass, Still quavering. The winds were like her maids, On timid feet, Fetching her woven scarves, Yet wavering.

And the color, the overcast blue Of the air, in which the blue guitar Is a form, described but difficult, And I am merely a shadow hunched Above the arrowy, still string, The maker of a thing yet to be made; The color like a thought that grows Out of a mood, the tragic robe Of the actor, half his gesture, half His speech, the dress of his meaning, silk Sodden with his melancholy words, The weather of his stage, himself.

Rintrah roars and shakes his fires in the burdened air; Hungry clouds swag on the deep.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.

Lost in a gloom of uninspired research.

If my music can change someone's mood for the better even a little bit, that's amazing.

A man who would be a success the world must first of all be a judge of moods, for untimely speeches will offend the ears and hurt the feelings of others, and so fail in their purpose. He has to beware of such occasions. But falling sick and bearing children and dying - these things take no account of moods. They do not cease because they are untimely. The shifting changes of birth, life, sickness, and death, the real great matters - these are like the surging flow of a fierce torrent, which delays not for an instant but straightway pursues its course. And so, for both priest and layman, there must be no talk of moods in things they must needs accomplish. They must be free from this care and that, they must not let their feet linger.

What a dreary world we live in, gentlemen.