Quotes About Solitude

I ask you: is dullness a gift? Intelligence a curse? I'm forty-seven years old and live alone.

A természet sem tudott megvigasztalni. A külvilág véget ért. Bárhová is mentem volna, mindenütt csak magammal találkozom.

She kept her face to the floor, moving in her personal oblivion, her sunflower eyes fixed on the predicament of her life we would never understand

And it was during this period that Madeleine fully understood how the lover's discourse was of an extreme solitude. The solitude was extreme because it wasn't physical. It was extreme because you felt it while in the company of the person you loved. It was extreme because it was in your head, that most solitary of places.

When we walk I hear your footsteps and miss your voice

To have a man kiss you in a women's jail is a gift better than any birthday or Christmas present. It's better than a bouquet of roses. It's better than a warm shower. I could imagine living in this jail for years and living for every workshop day and that male kiss on my cheek. That kiss was rain, sunshine, and the sweet air of outside. Yes. I knew I'd even sit there and glue stupid things onto cardboard sheets just to get that kiss again.

Other couples are living separately ever after

Real friendship admits recognition of the ugly as well as the beautiful. I remember the moments that snatched me from the passive solitude of my normal life, warned me of the pleasure and the fear of living

My house will only be a shell for my body. I don't want anyone to breathe my air with me, to disturb my dust.

People who climb mountains are lonely people; loneliness is needed. Acquaintances and friends are great things, but climbers need defined mental space that is untouched and unbothered by anyone.

Few women had climbed its North Face, and even fewer had done it in winter, but no one had done it alone. She and Jim began talking up her plans and flouting her achievements.

While rejoicing in again finding herself independent and teetering thousands of feet above the valley floor, negotiating life-and-death moves on the rock walls and being responsible to no one but herself.

and then, it's just me alone in bed with a man who can sleep with his back to me while I cry silent tears tha make the pillow wet around my head.

So I spent my birthday alone. I went out to where I go with BOB. It was light out, and everything seemed like an awful dream, until I saw a piece of rope lying at the back of the base of his favorite tree. I got a chill, but forced it away. I tried to look carefully at the tree, to find something that would explain why he picked this place, this tree. There was nothing. I made sure I was alone before I did what I had planned.

I think that the times that I have to go into the woods at night have poisoned me. I

His apartment is small and filled with books from the toilet tank to the top of the fridge. I think he has to keep reading these stories because he so rarely has any stories of his own. I

I do not think that hour there told me anything I could not have imagined myself, but being there, in that silence, gave me hope that at least there are no wars after death. I

It's too empty. Too lonely. No one to see, nothing to do. But he hadn't told her no. As the first weeks and months had passed, Christina had come to cherish the solitude and the silence, the slant of late-afternoon sun that warmed the floorboards where her ginger cat slept.

She lay awake on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, until it was six o'clock and her husband got up, quietly, to put on his running clothes, feigning sleep until she heard the front door open, and close. Then she lay there for another hour, wondering if she could continue to live like this, and, if not, what she was supposed to do next.

Seek out some retired and old-world spot, far from the madding crowd, and dream away a sunny week among its drowsy lanes - some half-forgotten nook, hidden away by the fairies, out of reach of the noisy world - some quaint-perched eyrie on the cliffs of Time, from whence the surging waves of the nineteenth century would sound far-off and faint.

agreed with George, and suggested that we should seek out some retired and old-world spot, far from the madding crowd, and dream away a sunny week among its drowsy lanes—some half-forgotten nook, hidden away by the fairies, out of reach of the noisy world—some quaint-perched eyrie on the cliffs of Time, from whence the surging waves of the nineteenth century would sound far-off and faint.

far from the madding crowd

I am alone and the road is very dark. I stumble on, I know not how nor care, for the way seems leading nowhere, and there is no light to guide. But at last the morning comes, and I find that I have grown into myself.

concern. "I did not see any activity—no one