Quotes About Solitude

He turned and saw her. Ah! She was lovely, lovelier now than ever he thought. But he could not speak to her. He could not interrupt her. He wanted urgently to speak to her now that James was gone and she was alone at last. But he resolved, no; he would not interrupt her. She was aloof from him now in her beauty, in her sadness. He would let her be, and he passed her without a word, though it hurt him that she should look so distant, and he could not reach her, he could do nothing to help her.

Talk of solitude (...). It is the last resort of the civilised: our souls are so creased and soured in meaning we can only unfold them when we are alone. (5/4/1927 - From a Letter to Vita Sackville-West)

Magában lehet, egyedül. S mostanában erre gyakran van szüksége - hogy gondolkozzék. Hogy ne kelljen beszélnie, egyedül legyen. Az egész lét, minden, amit teszünk, dallamos, ragyogó, lelkesítÅ', elillan, s ünnepélyes érzéssel önmagunkká, legigazibb lényünkké zsugorodunk, a sötétség ék alakú, mások számára láthatatlan magvává.

Se olvidan esas grandes guerras que libra el cuerpo con la mente esclava en la soledad del dormitorio contra el asalto de la fiebre o la llegada de la melancolía.

Nothing in the world pleases her so well as solitude. She is happiest alone in the country. She loves rambling alone in her woods. She loves going out by herself at night. She loves hiding from callers. She loves walking among her trees and musing.

E pensai a quanto fosse sgradevole esserne chiusi fuori; e pensai a come, forse, debba essere peggio rimanere chiusi dentro.

People were beginning to compare her to poplar trees, early dawn, hyacinths, fawns, running water, and garden lilies, and it made her life a burden to her, for she so much preferred being left alone to do what she liked in the country, but they would compare her to lilies, and she had to go to parties, and London was so dreary compared with being alone in the country with her father and the dogs.

Mai nessuno era parso così triste. Amara e nera, a metà strada, nelle tenebre, nel raggio che portava dal sole all'abisso, forse si formò una lacrima; una lacrima cadde; le acque ondeggiavano, la accolsero e si richiusero quietamente. Mai nessuno era parso così triste.

La muerte era desafío. La muerte era -por parte de personas que sentían la imposibilidad de alcanzar el centro que, místicamente, se les escapaba, que vivían una proximidad convertida en lejanía, un éxtasis desvirtuado, que se quedaban solas- un intento de comunicar. Había un abrazo en la muerte.

it is necessary to have five hundred a year and a room with a lock on the door if you are to write fiction or poetry.

Better is it', she thought, 'to be clothed with poverty and ignorance, which are the dark garments of the female sex; better to leave the rule and discipline of the world to others; 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.

For now, she need not think about anybody. 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.

sembrava fosse diventato fisicamente quello che loro avevano segretamente custodito nella loro mente – quella solitudine che era per entrambi la verità delle cose.

Quanh Ä'ây, nó nghÄ©, kh?a nh?ng ngón tay c?a nó trong lòng nÆ°á»›c, có má»™t con thuy?n Ä'ã b? ??m, nó th?m thì má»™t cách mÆ¡ màng, ná»­a mê ná»­a t?nh, chúng ta b? m?ng t?ng ng??i, Ä'Æ¡n Ä'á»™c bi?t bao.

she often went into her garden and got from her flowers a peace which men and women never gave her.

Fending for oneself alone on a desert island is really no laughing matter. It is no crying one either

They came there regularly every evening drawn by some need. It was as if the water floated off and set sailing thoughts which had grown stagnant on dry land, and gave to their bodies even some sort of physical relief. First, the pulse of colour flooded the bay with blue, and the heart expanded with it and the body swam, only the next instant to be checked and chilled by the prickly blackness on the ruffled waves.

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. —Virginia Woolf, The Waves (Harvest Books, January 1, 1978) Originally published October 1931.

Should I seek out some tree? Should I desert these form rooms and libraries, and the broad yellow page in which I read Catullus, for woods and fields? Should I walk under beech trees, or saunter along the river bank, where the trees meet united like lovers in the water? But nature is too vegetable, too vapid. She has only sublimities and vastitudes and water and leaves. I begin to wish for firelight, privacy, and the limbs of one person.

Affondava come una lama nelle cose; e al tempo stesso ne rimaneva fuori, osservava. Aveva l'impressione costante, anche ora guardando i taxi, di essere lontana, lontanissima, in mare aperto, e sola. Sempre aveva l'impressione che vivere, anche un solo giorno, fosse molto, molto pericoloso

children never forget. For this reason, it was so important what one said, and what one did, and it was a relief when they went bed. For now she need not think about anybody. 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.

We do not know our own souls, let alone the souls of others. Human beings do not go hand in hand the whole stretch of the way. There is a virgin forest in each; a snowfield where even the print of birds' feet is unknown. Here we go alone, and like it better so. Always to have sympathy, always to be accompanied, always to be understood would be intolerable

E poi, ora che era condannato, abbandonato da tutti, completamente solo, come è solo chi sta per morire, c'era un privilegio in questo, un isolamento che aveva del sublime, una libertà che chi ha legami non potrà mai conoscere.

Over the obscure man is poured the merciful suffusion of darkness. None knows where he goes or comes. He may seek the truth and speak it; he alone is free; he alone is truthful, he alone is at peace. And so he sank into a quiet mood, under the oak tree, the hardness of whose roots, exposed above the ground seemed to him rather comfortable than otherwise.