Quotes About Solitude

I am living at the Villa Borghese. There is not a crumb of dirt anywhere, nor a chair misplaced. We are all alone here and we are dead.

Tomorrow you may bring about the destruction of your world. Tomorrow you may sing in Paradise above the smoking ruins of your world-cities. But tonight I would like to think of one man, a lone individual, a man without name or country, a man whom I respect because he has absolutely nothing in common with you - MYSELF. Tonight I shall meditate upon that which I am.

I reached out for something to attach myself to—and I found nothing. But in reaching out, in the effort to grasp, to attach myself, left high and dry as I was, I nevertheless found something I had not looked for—myself.

To wander farther was to wander alone, to rely wholly upon oneself.

One can sleep almost anywhere, but one must have a place to work. Even if it's not a masterpiece you're doing. Even a bad novel requires a chair to sit on and a bit of privacy.

Artists never thrive in colonies.

No, we are never alone. But one has to live apart to know it for the truth.

Je commençais à lire, à trop lire. Je me tournais vers le dedans, je me refermais sur moi-même, comme font les fleurs, la nuit.

Dormir se puede casi en cualquier parte, pero hay que tener un sitio para trabajar. Hasta una novela mala requiere una silla para sentarse y un poquito de intimidad.

Someday I am going to own a few feet of earth somewhere and put a house over it. Just one big room will do, with a stove and a basin of water, a huge desk, a bookcase and an easel. Then life can go rolling by, and what floats in through my door will be sufficient for me.

In vacuum one has no need for new things, nor of excitement, nor of foreign stimuli. One has only to maintain a bare survival, to vegetate, like a fetus in a jar.

A weird sort of contentment in those days. No appointments, no invitations for dinner, no program, no dough. The golden period, when I had not a single friend.

La mayor parte de la escritura se hace lejos de la máquina de escribir.

To keep the mind empty is a feat, a very healthful feat too. To be silent the whole day long, see no newspaper, hear no radio, listen to no gossip, be thoroughly and completely lazy, thoroughly and completely indifferent to the fate of the world is the finest medicine a man can give himself.

It is not difficult to be alone if you are poor and a failure. An artist is always alone – if he is an artist. No, what the artist needs is loneliness.

One can live without friends, as one can live without love, or even without money, that supposed sine qua non. One can live in Paris – I discovered that! – on just grief and anguish. A bitter nourishment – perhaps the best there is for certain people.

There is a world here as full and rich, as compelling and instructive, as Thoreau found at Walden.

Only when we are truly alone does the fullness and richness of life reveal itself to us. In simplifying our lives, everything acquires a significance hitherto unknown. When we are one with ourselves the most insignificant blade of grass assumes its proper place in the universe

The crucial and truly pivotal events which mark our way are the fruits of silence and of solitude.

the only time a writer receives his due reward is when someone comes to him burning with this flame which he fanned in a moment of solitude, honest criticism means nothing, what one wants is unrestrained passion, fire for fire

wasteland resembling those vast areas of Australia where the dodo bird, shunned by other feathered species of the bush, forlornly buries his head in the sand and whistles out the other end.

S? fii îndr?gostit.S? fii total singur.. AÈ™a începe...cea mai ducle È™i cea mai amar? tristeÈ›e pe care o poate încerca cineva.

Tengo la viva sensación de que voy a ser el último hombre sobre la tierra. Saldré del escaparate, cuando todo haya acabado y me pasearé tranquilamente sobre las ruinas. Dispondré de la tierra entera para mí.

He had passed beyond the lure of champagne and oysters, beyond the need of light and space. He was like the dodo which buries its head in the sand and whistles out of its asshole.