Quotes About Solitude

She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone.

So loveliness reigned and stillness, and together made the shape of loveliness itself, a form from which life had parted; solitary like a pool at evening, far distant, seen from a train window, vanishing so quickly that the pool, pale in the evening, is scarcely robbed of its solitude, though once seen.

Better is it', she thought, 'to be clothed with poverty and ignorance, which are the dark garments of the female sex; better be quit of martial ambition, the love of power, and all the other manly desires if so one can more fully enjoy the most exalted raptures known to the humane spirit, which are', she said aloud as her habit was when deeply moved, 'contemplation, solitude, love.

I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.

I begin to be impatient of solitude - to feel its draperies hang sweltering, unwholesome about me.

And I will now rock the brown basin from side to side so that my ships may ride the waves. Some will founder. Some will dash themselves against the cliffs. One sails alone. That is my ship. It sails into icy caverns where the sea-bear barks and stalactites swing green chains.

To love makes one solitary, she thought. She could tell nobody, not even Septimus now...

If only he could be alone in his room working, he thought, among his books. That was where he felt at his ease.

It was odd, she thought, how if one was alone, one leant to inanimate things; trees, streams, flowers; felt they expressed one; felt they became one; felt they knew one, in a sense were one; felt an irrational tenderness thus (she looked at that long steady light) as for oneself. There rose, and she looked and looked with her needles suspended, there curled up off the floor of the mind, rose from the lake of one's being, a mist, a bride to meet her lover.

I addressed my self as one would speak to a companion with whom one is voyaging to the North Pole.

Septimus has been working too hard - that was all she could say to her own mother. To love makes one solitary, she thought.

I am extremely happy walking on the downs...I like to have space to spread my mind out in.

It is the privilege of loneliness; in privacy one may do as one chooses. One might weep if no one saw.

Alone, over my dead fire, I tend to see the thin places in my own stories.

I am not a woman, but the light that falls on this gate, on this ground. I am the seasons, I think sometimes, January, May, November; the mud, the mist, the dawn. I cannot be tossed about, or float gently, or mix with other people.

She was married, true; but if one's husband was always sailing round Cape Horn, was it marriage? If one liked him, was it marriage? If one liked other people, was it marriage? And finally, if one still wished, more than anything in the whole world, to write poetry, was it marriage? She had her doubts.

He would look over the edge of the sofa down into the sea.

Here, she felt, putting the spoon down, was the still space that lies about the heart of things, where one could move or rest...

For how would you like to be shut up for a whole month at a time, and possibly more in stormy weather, upon a rock the size of a tennis lawn?

When the storm crosses the marsh and sweeps over me where I lie in the ditch unregarded I need no words.

Cum de inima mea poate - cum mai poate, cum mai poate, repet?, puf?ind din havan?. Tânjind în singur?tate, chinul vieÈ›ii s?-l îndure?

you have neither wife nor child (without any sexual feeling, she longed to cherish that loneliness)...

She lives in dreams, alone.

She liked to be alone; she liked to be herself