Quotes About Solitude

I wanted to go hide. I wasn't looking to be more famous, I'm famous enough.

The quiet, even the danger, of the woods provided my rather lonely spirit with a sense of belonging that did not depend on human relationships.

Writing is a lonely are at times, we spend so much of our time locked in a room and never know if we are reaching anyone...

I sit, I read, I listen to music, I go or a walk, I ride to Prospect Park and sit under the Willow Tree, I remember, I forget, I look at pictures, I do, I do, I do... or I don't, but its peaceful... only me... no worries.

He looked down at the street, and the unbroken whiteness, and watched his foot touch the snow and listened to the slight crunching sound as he stepped forward. He looked back at his footprints. They were fascinating. He had been the only one to walk along this street today. There wasn't even the mark of a dog or squirrel, or the scratch of a bird. He continued through the soft, silent snow, a feeling of peace starting to flow through him, helping make his step lighter and easier.

We're all outsiders in a way. We're all alone and can become very lonely.

And though he liked drawing trees he liked most of all to be with trees. He would climb them, lean against them, even talk to them. It saddened him to discover the not everyone shared his feelings towards them.

We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and—in spite of True Romance magazines—we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely—at least, not all the time—but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don't see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.

The quiet and solitary man apprehends the inscrutable. He seeks nothing, holds to the mean, and remains free from entanglements.

The line of traffic advancing towards the rising sun looked like a procession of the returning dead. Every one of them, solitaries in clean shirts, smoking, checking mirrors to see if their reflections were still there, wore dark glasses.

You can be so much in a room that the world outside turns to water. You've got the heater blowing out burnt air, but you still don't get warm. Your ankles are singed, but your head's in a bucket of ice. Time drips like a stalactite. The water for the coffee boils away in a tree of steam.

Like all things in the universe, we are destined from birth to diverge. Time is simply the yardstick of our separation. If we are particles in a sea of distance, exploded from an original whole, then there is a science to our solitude. We are lonely in proportion to our years.

Standing there. watching her go, I felt lonelier than I have ever been in my life.

I never told anybody what was going on. Not a soul.

Loneliness becomes a lover, solitude a darling sin.

Every once in a while, people need to be in the presence of things that are really far away.

Agonía. Soledad del hombre en el sueño lleno de ascensores y trenes donde tú vas a velocidades inasibles. Soledad de los edificios, de las esquinas, de las playas, donde tú no aparecerás ya nunca.

He simply knew his own mind and found it company enough.

Excuse me for a moment, will ye. I think I have to talk to the river,' he said unsteadily and flopped over the side-rail.

More often than not, the wolves showed themselves in other ways—a track etched in the mud, a few scats here and there, the well-chewed, moss-covered bones of a Sitka blacktailed deer, and, most frequently and possibly most grand of all, a late-evening chorus of howls heard from the deck of our boat at a lonely anchorage. The sound echoed softly off the high granite walls of some slope or side hill, somewhere where the wolves hunted in the vast sea of verdant rain forest.

And?" "Ah." She was not certain whether it was the room's heartbeat she was hearing, or her own. "Would you like to sit down?" Her voice sounded as if coming from kilometers away as she said, "No. Thank you.

She loved her dream, because in the midst of the lifeswarm, it was one thing that was hers and hers alone, her dream of flying. Just … flying. Never to, or from, anywhere

Why then had he no past before he found the word cold in his mouth? He squatted down on the poor warped floorboards, shivering, rubbing himself for warmth, trying to remember. For a long time he squatted like a bird, for birds have no past or future but only an eternal present.

She lay in the dark and knew everything.