Quotes About Solitude

The mountain road brick-red of dust laced with lizard tracks, coming up through the peach orchard, hot, windless, cloistral in a silence of no birds save one vulture hung in the smokeblue void of the sunless mountainside, rocking on the high updrafts, and the road turning and gated with bullbriers waxed and green, and the green cadaver grin sealed in the murky waters of the peach pit, slimegreen skull with newts coiled in the eyesockets and a wig of moss.

Pues la hostilidad del mundo le resultaba ahora nuevamente manifiesta y tan fría como debe de serlo para todo aquel que ya no tiene para combatirla otra cosa que sí mismo.

Wow, said Bianca.

That day there was no sun only a paleness in the haze and the country was white with frost and the shrubs were like polar isomers of their own shapes. Wild rams ghosted away up those rocky draws and the wind swirled down cold and gray from the snowy reeks above them, a smoking region of wild vapors blowing down through the gap as if the world up there were all afire.

There was nothing along the road save the country it traversed and there was nothing in the country at all.

The moon was already a quarter ways up. All but day bright. He felt like something in a jar.

He was trudging out across the field with his chin down so that withdrawing in the firelight he looked like a headless revenant turned away from the warmth of men's gatherings.

Dark and cold and no wind and a thin gray reef beginning along the eastern rim of the world. He walked out on the prairie and stood holding his hat like some supplicant to the darkness over them all and he stood there for a long time.

and he knew that he would not be buried in this valley but in some distant place among strangers

I'm a fugitive from the ways of this world. I'd be a fugitive from my mind if I had me some snow.

Nothing moved in that purgatorial waste save carnivorous birds. By

Alone in the empty shell of a house the squatter watched through the moteblown glass a rimshard of bonecolored moon come cradling up over the black balsams on the ridge, ink trees a facile hand sketched against the paler dark of winter heavens.

Cormac McCarthy

He lay down in his blankets. It was growing dark, long late mid-summer twilight in the woods. He wanted to go down to the river to bathe but he felt too bad. He turned over and looked at the small plot of ground in the crook of his arm. My life is ghastly, he told the grass.

I know certain days of your childhood. All but weeping with loneliness. Coming upon a certain book in the library and clutching it to you. Carrying it home. Some perfect place to read it. Under a tree perhaps. Beside a stream. Flawed youths of course. To prefer a world of paper. Rejects.

Some time after midnight on the twenty-first of December it began to snow. By morning in the gray spectral light of a brief and obscure winter sun the fields lay deadwhite and touched with a phosphorous glow as if producing illumination of themselves, and the snow was still wisping down thickly, veiling the trees beyond the creek and the mountain itself, falling softly, and softly, faintly sounding in the immense white silence.

when you close your eyes do I go away? Do you?

and bottles and they left

Why are you by yourself? I'm not by myself. I'm schizophrenic.

She is a real bookworm. I think she lives on print. Her whole house is full of books - looks as if she likes them better than human company.

Yes, I do enjoy walking at night. The world's more to my liking then, not so loud, not so fast, not so crowded, and a good deal more mysterious.

Everyone is small at night.

How loud small noises sound in a silence.

She was gone. And his heart was beating too loud and too fast. Into nothingness.