Quotes About Solitude

she found herself back in the quiet inner hideaway that had sheltered her in her childhood and early youth,

Nothing more private than pain. It can only involve one.

Was it true that Mr. Rask was omnipotently rich? Was he really still a bachelor? Why on earth? Did he ever go out? What were the tastes and pleasures of such a unique man?

It took me a while to realize the hum was only inside my head Is a waveless noise still a sound?

Everyday brought me further away from other people, I had been placed out of the world's sight, as if in a cupboard, and I hoped it would stay that way. I developed a yearning for being alone, unkempt, untended.

Mein Vater, sagte Georg, hat das Fahrrad zum Bahnhof mitgenommen, damit er auf dem Hinweg nicht so nahe neben mir gehen muss und auf dem Rückweg nicht an seinen Händen spürt, dass er allein nach Hause geht.

Todo lo que tengo lo llevo conmigo. O: todo lo mío lo llevo conmigo. He llevado todo lo que tenía. No era mío. Era o algo destinado a otras finalidades o de otra persona. […] Llevo un equipaje de silencio. Me he rodeado de un silencio tan hondo y duradero que nunca acierto a abrirme con las palabras. Cuando hablo, solamente me cierro de otra manera.

Enxuguei os olhos com as pontas do cachecol enquanto caminhava, repetidas vezes e à pressa, para passar despercebido. Na verdade, ninguém estava a olhar para mim, eu queria era passar despercebido a mim próprio. Eu sabia, bem de mais, que existe uma lei interna segundo a qual não se deve nunca começar a chorar, quando se tem demasiados motivos para o fazer.

Llevo un equipaje de silencio. Me he rodeado de un silencio tan hondo y duradero que nunca acierto a abrirme con las palabras. Cuando hablo, solamente me cierro de otra manera.

She felt tears dripping down her cheeks, and she wondered if anyone would ever miss her if she simply sat here, drinking coffee for days and days, years and years.

The world corrupts me, I think. Or perhaps it's just the weather. It pulls me down and makes me think like you, that one should shrink inside, down and down to a little point of light, preserving one's solitary soul like a flame under glass

Sometimes I'm at stool all night." 507

For I chase but one hind, he says, one strange deer timid and wild, and she leads me off the paths that other men have trod, and by myself into the depths of the wood.

Death stays when the visitors have gone, and the nurses turn a blind eye; he leans back on his portable throne, he crosses his legs, he says, 'Entertain me.

So, Lucile thinks, Gabrielle has the prospect of escape; but in her apartment at the rue des Cordeliers, she sits still and silent, in the conscious postures of pregnant women. Sometimes she cries; this chit Louise Gély trips down the stairs to join her in a few sniffles. Gabrielle is crying for her marriage, her soul and her king; Louise is crying, she supposes, for a broken doll or a kitten run over in the street. Can't stand it, she thinks. Men are better company.

Thomas Moro solía decir que uno debería construir un retiro, una ermita, dentro de su casa.

For a month he is at home: he reads.

Gardiner, he thinks. It may not be proper to call

occurs to him that when he is dead, other people will be getting on with their day;

Small, inquisitive and solitary, the only child of an only son, growing up in rented lodgings or hotel rooms, constantly on the move as a boy, Anthony Powell needed an energetic imagination to people a sadly under-populated world from a child's point of view. His mother and his nurse were for long periods the only people he saw, in general the one unchanging element in a peripatetic existence.

She thought it must be a lonely life for a boy who hated books.

Writing fiction is a solitary occupation but not really a lonely one. The writer's head is mobbed with characters, images and language, making the creative process something like eavesdropping at a party for which you've had the fun of drawing up the guest list. Loneliness usually doesn't set in until the work is finished, and all the partygoers and their imagined universe have disappeared.

Writing fiction is a solitary occupation but not really a lonely one. The writer's head is mobbed with characters, images and language.

The sun began to sink. I inspected my rifle and retied my boots.