Quotes About Solitude

When I didn't have friends, I had books.

As always after drinking too much, I felt like my own ghost trying to take it's first solo walk outside the body.

I think a lot about the poems I wasn't able to write...I masturbrated...Solitude is essentially a matter of pride; you bury yourself in your own scent. The issue is the same for all real poets. If you've been happy for too long, you become banal. By the same token, if you've been unhappy for a long time, you lose your poetic power...Happiness and poverty can only coexist for the briefest time. Afterword either happiness coarsens the poet or the poem is so true it destroys his happiness.

A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is: when I speak of writing, what comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or literary tradition, it is a person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and alone, turns inward; amid its shadows, he builds a new world with words.

I need the pain of loneliness to make my imagination work.

Immersing oneself in the problems of a book is a good way to keep from thinking of love.

Snow reminds Ka of God! But I'm not sure it would be accurate. What brings me close to God is the silence of snow.

To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that's still molded to the form of a love who has left never to return: It is to grieve, dear reader, it is to weep.

It was as if he were in a place that the whole world had forgotten; as if it were snowing at the end of the world.

The only antidote to the loneliness of the streets was the streets themselves.

La razón fundamental de mi soledad es que ni siquiera yo sé de qué historia formo parte.

But don't forget that arrogant men who think too much of themselves always end up alone.

Encontrarse solo con los rastros en lugar de con los recuerdos en sí se parece a mirar con lágrimas en los ojos la huella que ha dejado en un sillón vuestra amante después de abandonaros para no volver más.

A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is. When I speak of writing, the image that comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or a literary tradition; it is the person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and, alone, turns inward. Amid his shadows, he builds a new world with words.

Na konci dlhého d?a a ve?era, preplneného ?u?mi, môcÃ…Â¥ sedieÃ…Â¥ sám v kresle a byÃ…Â¥ samým sebou...Bolo to ako príchod z dlhej cesty plnej dobrodružstiev...ako návrat domov.

So this is how Mevlut came to understand the truth that a part of him had known all along: walking around the city at night made him feel as if he were wandering around inside his own head.

The idea of a solitary westernized individual whose faith in God is private is very threatening to you. An atheist who belongs to a community is far easier for you to trust than a solitary man who believes in God. For you, a solitary man is far more wretched and sinful than a nonbeliever.

These sights spoke of a strange and powerful loneliness.

Dok je prolazio pokraj prazne armenske jednokatnice prozora okovanih daskama, Ka je, osluškuju?i svoj dah i škripu svojih koraka, za?uo kako ga dozivaju sre?a i život, jasno i izazovno kao da ih prvi put ?uje. A njemu je bilo jasno jedino to da u sebi ima dovoljno snage da im - okrene le?a.

Samo?a je stvar ponosa: osamljcnik se na veoma nadmen na?in utapa u vlastitome mirisu... Problem pravoga pjesnika zapravo je uvijek isti: ako je dugo sretan, postane otrcan. A ako je dugo nesretan, ne može u sebi na?i snagu na koju bi se njegove pjesme mogle osloniti... Sre?a i pjesništvo - to ne može dugo zajedno. Nakon nekog vremena ili sre?a obezvrijedi pjesnika i njegovu poeziju ili mu prava poezija upropasti sre?u.

Benim için hakiki edebiyat?n baÅŸlad??? yer, kitaplarla kendini bir odaya kapatan adamd?r.

PriveÈ™te-l în adâncul ochilor; are o inim? ca de copil, atât de curat?, atât de singuratic?!

The silence of snow, thought the man sitting just behind the bus driver. If this were the beginning of a poem, he would have called the thing he felt inside him the silence of snow.

the desolation and remoteness of the place hit him with such force that he felt God inside him.