Quotes about Complaints

This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being a force of nature instead of a feverish selfish clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community and as long as I live it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no 'brief candle' to me. It is sort of a splendid torch which I have a hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it over to future generations.

The spirit of a warrior is not geared to indulging and complaining, nor is it geared to winning or losing. The spirit of a warrior is geared only to struggle, and every struggle is a warrior's last battle on earth. Thus the outcome matters very little to him. In his last battle on earth a warrior lets his spirit flow free and clear. And as he wages his battle, knowing that his intent is impeccable, a warrior laughs and laughs.

Love is Enough Love is enough: though the world be a-waning, And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining, Though the skies be too dark for dim eyes to discover The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder, Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder, And this day draw a veil over all deeds passed over, Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter: The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.

Bernard Loomer's father was a sea captain. He was acquainted with his small place in an uncontrollable nature. In a talk in 1974 Loomer described his father's instructions about the uses of a baseball glove. The father had just overheard his son's sandlot complaints about the thinness of a glove inherited from his older brothers. When his father asked him what a baseball glove was for, young Loomer had said that it was to protect the hand. In the words of Bernard Loomer in his sixties, his father replied: Son, I never have played baseball, but it seems to me you ought to be able to catch the ball bare-handed. The way I look at it, you use a glove not to protect your hand, but to give you a bigger hand to help catch balls that are more difficult to reach. I assume that in this as in all walks of life there are tricks to the trade. I suggest you learn how to catch with that glove for two reasons. First, because you are not going to get another one, and second, because you don't need protection from life. You need a glove to give you a bigger hand to catch baseballs you might otherwise miss. As the decade of the 1970s progressed, Loomer reflected increasingly on the fact that what you might otherwise miss [in theology] was irrational, even evil, but [that it] must be caught anyway. Loomer grew increasingly dissatisfied with those who seemed to restrict their reach-even Whitehead was faulted. And increasingly it appeared that Christian theology was the theology Loomer had-that he was not going to get another one-and so, although it was thin in places, he attempted to use the one theology he had, to catch all he could. [This] suggests the meaning of Loomer's special term, "size." Size signifies "the volume of life you can take into your being and still maintain your integrity."

Lord, it is my chief complaint, That my love is weak and faint; Yet I love thee and adore, Oh for grace to love thee more!

The pessimist complains about the wind; The optimist expects it to change; The realist adjusts the sails.

A little less complaint and whining, and a little more dogged work and manly striving, would do us more credit than a thousand civil rights bills.

A wayfarer carried a heavy sack about which he complained unceasingly. From none could he get help or comfort. And as he slowly journeyed, groaning under his burden, the Angel of Optimism came to him and spoke kindly, saying: "Brother, what does thou carry?" The man answered surlily, "My worries." The angel smiled pityingly upon him and said, "Let us look into thy burden and examine thy worries." And so they looked in. But lo! the sack was empty. "Why surely," cried the man, "there were two great worries, too heavy for man to bear. But-ah, yes, I had forgot-one was a worry of yesterday, and so it is gone." "And the other?" "That-why, that was a worry of tomorrow, and it-it has not yet come." Then the angel smiled with infinite pity, saying: "Hearken! He who bows himself down under the worries of yesterday and tomorrow wears himself out for naught. But he who carries only the worries of today has no need of a sack for his sorrows. If thou will cast this black thing aside, and give all thy strength and cheer and courage to the things of today, real misfortune never can burden thee." Wondering, the man did as the angel commanded. And as he took up his journey and went lightly, swiftly on, his heart and his hands were free to relieve many a brother wayfarer of his burden and to pluck sweet fruits and flowers along the wayside. And when he came at last to the setting of the sun it was with smiles and a song.

Hypocrite: Someone who complains that there is too much sex and violence on his VCR.

A newspaper subscriber commented: Since reading that report, I've made a conscious effort to recall my blessings nearly every hour. Instead of dreading the drudgery of cleaning house, I express gratitude for my home. I've found so many things to be grateful for, little things like running water and electricity. A few weeks ago, I complained because my knees ached; now I say how grateful I am that I can walk. I think it's important to express our gratitude out loud. The positive focus on gratitude has pushed out of my mind the negative thoughts that were dragging me down.

Jesus hath many lovers of His heavenly kingdom, but few bearers of His Cross. He hath many seekers of comfort, but few of tribulation. He findeth many companions of His table, but few of His fasting. All desire to rejoice with Him, few are willing to undergo anything for His sake. Many follow Jesus that they may eat of His loaves, but few that they may drink of the cup of His passion. Many are astonished at His miracles, few follow after the shame of His Cross. Many love Jesus so long as no adversities happen to them. Many praise Him and bless Him, so long as they receive any comforts from Him. But if Jesus hide Himself and withdraw a little while, they fall either into complaining or into too great dejection of mind.

A disciple once complained, "You tell us stories, but you never reveal their meaning to us." The master replied, "How would you like it if someone offered you fruit and then chewed it up for you before giving it to you?" If your heart is straight with God, then every creature will be to you a mirror of life and a book of holy doctrine.

Every year it seems to me I hear complaints about spring. It is either "late" or "unusually cold," "abnormally dry" or "fantastically wet," for no one is ever willing to admit that there is no such thing as a normal spring.

Had not almost every man suffered by the Press, or were not the tyranny thereof become universal, I had not wanted reason for complaint.

A soprano in Massenet's Don Quixote complained that she had missed her entry in the aria, "because Mr. Challiapin always dies too soon." "Madam, you must be profoundly in error," said Sir Thomas, "No operatic star has yet died half soon enough for me."

Somebody has to go polish the stars, They're looking a little bit dull. Somebody has to go polish the stars, For the eagles and starlings and gulls Have all been complaining they're tarnished and worn, They say they want new ones we cannot afford. So please get your rags And your polishing jars, Somebody has to go polish the stars.

We all sorely complain of the shortness of time, and yet have much more than we know what to do with. Our lives are either spent in doing nothing at all, or in doing nothing to the purpose, or in doing nothing that we ought to do. We are always complaining that our days are few, and acting as though there would be no end of them.

When any fit of anxiety or gloominess or perversion of the mind lays hold upon you, make it a rule not to publish it by complaints but exert your whole care to hide it. By endeavoring to hide it, you will drive it away.

'Well,' said Red Jacket [to someone complaining that he had not enough time], 'I suppose you have all there is.'

No great man ever complains of want of opportunity.

A fool bolts pleasure, then complains of moral indigestion.

I once complained to my father that I didn't seem to be able to do things the same way other people did. Dad's advice? "Margo, don't be a sheep. People hate sheep. They eat sheep."

But this does not exempt the sane from a feeling of alarm when a madman who has composed a sublime poem, after explaining to them in the most logical fashion that he has been shut up by mistake through his wife's machinations, imploring them to intercede for him with the governor of the asylum, complaining of the promiscuous company that is forced upon him, concludes as follows: "You see that man in the courtyard, who I'm obliged to put up with; he thinks he's Jesus Christ. That should give you an idea of the sort of lunatics I've been shut up with: he can't be Jesus Christ, because I'm Jesus Christ!" A moment earlier, you were on the point of going to assure the psychiatrist that a mistake had been made. On hearing these words, even if you bear in mind the admirable poem at which this same man is working every day, you shrink from him. . . .

Complaining about exclusion is a way of remaining silent.

Amid all the easily loved darlings of Charlie Brown's circle, obstreperous Lucy holds a special place in my heart. She fusses and fumes and she carps and complains. That's because Lucy cares. And it's the caring that counts.

It is only imperfection that complains of what is imperfect. The more perfect we are, the more gentle and quiet we become towards the defects of others.

Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, And Scipio's ghost walks unaveng'd amongst us!

It is very wonderful to see persons of the best sense passing hours together in shuffling and dividing a pack of cards with no conversation but what is made up of a few game-phrases, and no other ideas but those of black or red spots arranged together in different figures. Would not a man laugh to hear any one of his species complaining that life is short?

For this is not the liberty which we can hope, that no grievance ever should arise in the Commonwealth, that let no man in this world expect; but when complaints are freely heard, deeply considered, and speedily reformed, then is the utmost bound of civil liberty attained that wise men look for.

Had they [the Tories] been in the wilderness they would have complained of the Ten Commandments. Remark.