Quotes About Solitude

She was gone and the coldness of it was her final gift.

Old woods and deep. At one time in the world there were woods that no one owned and these were like them.

My perfect day is sitting in a room with some blank paper. That's heaven. That's gold and anything else is just a waste of time.

In the deep glens where they lived, all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

Toward early morning he woke, sat up quickly and looked about him. It was still dark and the fire had long since died, still dark and quiet with that silence that seems to be of itself listening, an astral quiet where planets collide soundlessly, beyond the auricular dimension altogether. He listened. Above the black ranks of trees the mid-summer sky arched cloudless and coldly starred. He lay back and stared at it and after a while he slept.

How would you know if you were the last man on Earth? He said. I don't guess you would know it. You'd just be it.

A person who had no one would be well advised to cobble together some passable ghost. Breathe it into being and coax it along with words of love. Offer it each phantom crumb and shield it from harm with your body

When we're all gone at last then there'll be nobody here but death and his days will be numbered too.

He sat by a gray window in the gray light in an abandoned house in the late afternoon and read old newspapers while the boy slept. The curious news. The quaint concerns.

Here is a story. The last of all men who stands alone in the universe while it darkens about him. Who sorrows all things with a single sorrow. Out of the pitiable and exhausted remnants of what was once his soul he'll find nothing from which to craft the least thing godlike to guide him in these last of days.

The blackness he woke to on those nights was sightless and impenetrable. A blackness to hurt your ears with listening.

He walked to the top of a rise and crouched and watched the day accrue. The chary dawn, the cold illucid world.

There were few nights lying in the dark that he did not envy the dead.

Se quedó escuchando el goteo del agua en el bosque. Lecho rocoso, este. El frío y el silencio. Las cenizas del mundo difunto trajinadas de acá para allá por los crudos y transitorios vientos en el vacío. Llevadas, esparcidas y llevadas de nuevo. Todo desencajado de su apuntalamiento. Sin soporte en el viento cinéreo. Sostenido por una respiración, temblorosa y breve. Ojalá mi corazón fuese de piedra.

If I'm not here you can still talk to me. You can talk to me and I'll talk to you. You'll see.

Live by yourself and you bound to talk yourself and when ye commence that folks start it up that you're light in the head. But I reckon it's all right to talk to a dog since most folks do even if a dog don't understand and cain't answer if he did.

Where man can't live gods fare no better. You'll see. It's better to be alone.

At the farther edge of the town they came upon a solitary house in a field and they crossed and entered and walked through the rooms. They came upon themselves in a mirror and he almost raised the pistol. It's us, Papa, the boy whispered. It's us.

Were there darker provinces of night he would have found them.

All through the long dusk

A person who had no one would be well advised to cobble together some passable ghost.

E se eu te dissesse que ele é um deus? O velho abanou a cabeça. Já não acredito em nada disso. Deixei de acreditar há anos. Onde os homens não conseguem viver, os deuses não têm melhor sorte. Vais ver. É melhor estar sozinho.

After a while he pulled his hat down over his eyes and stood and placed his hands outstretched on the roof of the cab and rode in that manner. As if he were some personage bearing news for the countryside. As if he were some newfound evangelical being conveyed down out of the mountains....

Now come days of begging, days of theft. Days of riding where there rode no soul save he. He's left behind the pinewood country and the evening sun declines before him beyond an endless swale and dark falls here like a thunderclap and a cold wind sets the weeds to gnashing. The night sky lies so sprent with stars that there is scarcely space of black at all and they fall all night in bitter arcs and it is so that their numbers are no less.