Quotes About Solitude

To ticho mÄ› deprimovalo. PÃ…â"¢itom to nebylo ticho normálního ticha. Bylo to moje vlastní ticho.

talk to myself and look at the dark trees, blessedly neutral. So much easier than facing people, than having to look happy, invulnerable, clever.

I picked up my pocketbook and started back over the cold stones to where my shoes kept their vigil in the violet light.

Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: "I'll go take a hot bath.

Quería estar donde nadie más que yo supiera que podría llegar.

under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air

a quiet large house with no interruptions, phone, or visitors;

Dio, la vita non è proprio altro che solitudine, malgrado tutti gli oppiacei, malgrado la stridula, posticcia allegria delle feste senza scopo, malgrado il sorriso falso che tutti indossiamo. E quando infine trovi qualcuno in cui senti di poter riversare la tua anima, ti blocchi di colpo davanti alle tue stesse parole-le hai tenute dentro così a lungo, contratte nel buio, che sono ormai sbiadite, brutte, banali, fiacche.

Mentally I have led a vegetable existence this summer.

Quando infine trovi qualcuno in cui senti di poter riversare la tua anima, ti blocchi di colpo davanti alle tue stesse parole - le hai tenute dentro così a lungo, contratte nel buio, che sono ormai sbiadite, brutte, banali, fiacche. Sì, c'è l'allegria, l'autorealizzazione, lo stare insieme: ma la solitudine dell'anima, nella sua spaventosa consapevolezza, è insopportabile, soverchiante.

My hours are married to shadow. No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel On the blank stones of the landing.

have deserted french

There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds:

I am too pure for you or anyone.

And to wait, taut, smiling, till evening, and the time after eight o'clock, again, to the time you go to bed, which is yours, which is brief and private.

Last summer's reeds are all engraved in ice as is your image in my eye; dry frost glazes the window of my hurt; what solace can be struck from rock to make heart's waste grow green again? Who'd walk in this bleak place?

We walk on air, Watson. There is only the moon, embalmed in phosphorus. There is only a crow in a tree. Make notes.

When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone ...

This love is silent.

Hell is oneself, Hell is alone.

Descend lower, descend only Into the world of perpetual solitude, World not world, but that which is not world, Internal darkness, deprivation And destitution of all property, Desiccation of the world of sense, Evacuation of the world of fancy, Inoperancy of the world of spirit;

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

There was a door And I could not open it. I could not touch the handle. Why could I not walk out of my prison? What is hell? Hell is oneself, Hell is alone, the other figures in it Merely projections. There is nothing to escape from And nothing to Escape to. One is always alone.

She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: "Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over". When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone