Quotes About Solitude

When you are alone, you have all the time in the world to practice whistling like a bird. When there is no one in the world you can turn to, a horse or .even a lion may give you companionship. When you don't know if there is anyone in the world like you, you seek contact with something living however you can

Like men, some grow best in company, striving to outdo the rest. Others need to grow their own way, though it may be lonely. Both have value.

But on the first day came veiled spirits from all hours into his soul... a soft intoxication, which the atmosphere of nature, like that of a wine-store, communicated to him, spread itself, like an enchanted solitude around his soul.

The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.

You can pretend for a long time, but one day it all falls away and you are alone. We are alone in the most beautiful place in the world...

A room is, after all, a place where you hide from the wolves. That's all any room is.

Not that she objected to solitude. Quite the contrary. She had books, thank Heaven, quantities of books. All sorts of books.

Now I no longer wish to be loved, beautiful, happy or successful. I want one thing and one thing only - to be left alone.

To be adult is to be alone.

To be an adult is to be alone.

The Gods Are Here" This is no mountain But a house, No rock of solitude But a family chair, No wilds But life appearing As life anywhere domesticated, Yet I know the gods are here, And that if I touch them I will arise And take majesty into the kitchen.

I hate the moonlight because it's beautiful and he isn't here to see it with me.

Please be thinking about me. I'm quite lonely and I want to be thought about

j'étais seul au milieu de cette multitude, pris au piège comme une araignée qui se serait enfermée dans sa propre toile.

JistÄ› právÄ› v tom tkví duch Cesty, v touze pojít svÄ›tem proto, aby pÃ…â"¢ed ním ?lovÄ›k unikl, a najít druhé lidi tam, kde nikdo není. Jak napsal Alphonse Allais: "V pustinÄ› se lidé rádi sdružují...

Castaways on the shores of loneliness

Wind begins to whip up the sand. The tide has gone out so far that swimmers look like tiny dots on the horizon. The children run to stretch their legs on the beach once more before leaving, and Sylvie and I remain alone and silent, her hand squeezing my inert fingers. Behind dark glasses that reflect a flawless sky, she softly weeps over our shattered lives.

Sunday. I contemplate my books, piled up on the windowsill to constitute a small library: a rather useless one, for today no one will come to read them for me. Seneca, Zola, Chateaubriand, and Valery Larbaud are right there, three feet away, just out of reach. A very black fly settles on my nose. I waggle my head to unseat him. He digs in. Olympic wrestling is child's play compared to this. Sunday.

I live alone, with cats, books, pictures, fresh vegetables to cook, the garden, the hens to feed.

They kept nothing of import from each other, but Lydia liked having a sacred cupboard within herself, to which only she was allowed access.

Mais l'amour ce n'est pas cela, c'est une foudre à combustion lente, un éclair qui se déploie au ralenti dans le ciel plombé de la solitude et qui met des semaines, parfois des années à répandre sa lumière sur la conscience, laquelle devra attendre encore longtemps avant d'être secouée par les roulements terribles du tonnerre.

People sometimes make unexpected choices when they're lonely

A whole extra bed without a sister to go along with it!

Jeanne Birdsall