Quotes About Solitude

A nice settled moment between the business of the day and the puzzle of the evening. It occurs to me these are moments I live for.

He'd be working late in his studio tonight—alone. He was a man who disliked company, who held people in contempt, though he made his living immortalizing them.

His mouth opens. From inside him comes a slow stream, without breath, without interruption. It flows up through his body and out upon me; it passes through the cabin, through the wreck; washing the cliffs and shores of the island, it runs northward and southward to the ends of the earth. Soft and cold, dark and unending, it beats against my eyelids, against the skin of my face.

Deprived of human intercourse, I inevitably overvalue the imagination and expect it to make the mundane glow with an aura of self-transcendence.

I stretched out my arms and laid my palms on the earth, and, yes, the rocking persisted, the rocking of the island as it sailed through the sea and the night bearing into the future its freight of gulls and sparrows and fleas and apes and castaways, all unconscious now, save me. I fell asleep smiling.

I'll leave now,' says he, Simón.

You will believe me when I say the life we lead grows less and less distinct from the life we led of Cruso's island. Sometimes I wake up not knowing where I am. The world is full of islands, said Cruso once. His words ring truer every day.

La vida de la mente, piensa para sí: ¿a eso es a lo que nos hemos dedicado, yo y esos otros trotamundos solitarios en las entrañas del British Museum? ¿Nos espera alguna recompensa? ¿Se disipará nuestra soledad, o la vida de la mente es en sí misma una recompensa?

I become a spherical reflecting eye moving through the wilderness and ingesting it. Destroyer of the wilderness, I move through the land cutting a devouring path from horizon to horizon. There is nothing from which my eye turns. I am all that I see. Such loneliness! Not a stone, not a bush, not a wretched provident ant that is not comprehended in this traveling sphere. What is there that is not me? I am a transparent sac with a black core full of images and a gun.

I ought to return to the cool dark and lock the door and bend the key and stop my ears to the noise of patriotic bloodlust and close my lips and never speak again.

John no estaba hecho para el amor, no estaba construido de esa manera, no estaba construido para encajar en otro ser o para que otro ser encajara en él. Como una esfera. Como una bola de cristal. No había manera de conectar con él. Tal es mi conclusión, mi conclusión madurada.

And what is the upshot of this lack of heat, this lack of heart? The upshot is that he is sitting alone on a Sunday afternoon in an upstairs room in a house in the depths of the Berkshire countryside, with crows cawing in the fields and a grey mist hanging overhead, playing chess with himself, growing old, waiting for evening to fall so that he can with a good conscience fry his sausages and bread for supper.

A man who wants to live cannot live in a house with lights in the windows. He must live in a hole and hide by day. A man must live so that he leaves no trace of his living. That is what it has come to.

You will believe me when I say the life we lead grows less and less distinct from the life we led on Cruso's island. Sometimes I wake up not knowing where I am. The world is full of islands, said Cruso once. His words ring truer every day.

Perryville without

And bottom line, without John by her side, everything seemed to be just a big, resounding meh.

His thumb went back and forth over the satin, as if he were rubbing her hip as he had when they'd been together, and he moved his leg over so that it was on top of the skirting. It wasn't the same, though. There was no body underneath, and the fabric smelled like lemons, not her skin. And he was, after all, alone in this room that was not theirs. "God, I miss you," he said in a voice that cracked. "Every night. Every day…

They sat side by side in silence—because sometimes that was all you could do for someone you loved: There were paths that had to be walked alone. And that just sucked.

And he was not lonely. Never had been. Vengeance was one hell of a roommate.

Maybe she just needed out. Out of Caldwell. Out of the CCJ. Out of the electronic family of her alarm clock and the phone on her desk and the TV that kept her dreams away while she slept.

También ponía la televisión, para oír voces, pero eso no hace que dejes de sentirte sola.

he was ever alone now, set apart from those around him, separated by a divide he could see across but never cover. To be without family was a strange, unseeable prison, the bars of loneliness and rootlessness enclosing ever more tightly as years and experience accumulated, isolating a male such that he touched naught and naught touched him. Darius

I'd rather be alone." She pivoted around again. "I'm getting tired of crying in front of an audience.

I've purposely set up my life to be alone so I won't get hurt.