Quotes About Solitude

I slept all day, face down in the pillow, a comfortable dead-man's float only remotely disturbed by a chill undertow of reality—talk, footsteps, slamming doors—which threaded fitfully through the dark, blood-warm waters of dream.

Books are written by the alone for the alone.

liked the idea of living in a city — any city, especially a strange one — liked the thought of traffic and crowds, of working in a bookstore, waiting tables in a coffee shop, who knew what kind of solitary life I might slip into? Meals alone, walking the dogs in the evenings; and nobody knowing who I was.

We drank our tea. The lamplight was warm and the apartment still and snug. At home in bed, in my private abyss of longing, the scenes i dreamed of always began like this: drowsy drunken hour, the two of us alone, scenarios in which invariably she would brush against me as if by chance, or lean coveniently close, cheek touching mine, to point out a passage in a book, opportunities that i would seize, gently but manfully, as exordium to more violent pleasures.

BEFORE BORIS, I HAD borne my solitude stoically enough, without realizing quite how alone I was.

But if you close the door… the night could last forever…

Era una quietud que yo conocía bien: así se encerraba en sí misma una casa cuando alguien moría.

Buffalo is a long way from New York City; but apart from a dreamlike, feverish stop in Syracuse, where I walked and watered Popper and bought us a couple of cheese danishes because there wasn't anything else—I managed to sleep almost the whole way, through Batavia and Rochester and Syracuse and Binghamton, with my cheek against the window and cold air coming through at the crack, the vibration taking me back to Wind, Sand and Stars and a lonely cockpit high above the desert.

Was it wrong, wanting to sleep late with the covers over my head and wander around a peaceful house with old seashells in drawers and wicker baskets of folded upholstery fabric stored under the parlor secretary, sunset falling in drastic coral spokes through the fanlight over the front door?

I had never been to Brooklyn and didn't know a thing about it but I liked the idea of living in a city - any city, especially a strange one - liked the thought of traffic and crowds, of working in a bookstore, waiting tables in a coffee shop, who knew what kind of odd, solitary life I might slip into?

But strange and marvelous as she was, a wisp of silk in a forest of black wool, she was not at all the fragile creature one would ever have her seem. In many ways she was as cool and competent as Henry; tough-minded and solitary in her habits, and in many ways as aloof .

for the first time I realized how lonely the next two months would really be, with the school closed, the snow deep, everyone gone.

Nobody said anything. Dust motes floated in a sunbeam.

The lone person on a wild landscape is a baseline of human liberty, a condition in which we are restrained by only physical limits and the bounds of our own consciousness.

Perhaps; but I am a difficult person to live with. My difficulty consists in not wanting to live with other people.

I am not the we of anyone

Il n'y a pas de plus grande émotion que d'entrer dans le désert.

He who would be serene and pure needs but one thing, detachment.

A book is the only real escape from this fallen world.

Estar solo no tiene nada que ver con la cantidad de gente que te rodea.

Sometimes I felt so alone that I wish there were a bigger, longer word for alone. I tried to tell Grandma about this feeling, about my suspicion that life was nicking away pieces of me.

found him on his bench, sober and sorry for it.

Walking in the dark streets of Seoul under the almost full moon. Lost for the last two hours. Finishing a loaf of bread and worried about the curfew. I have not spoken for three days and I am thinking, "Why not just settle for love? Why not just settle for love instead?

Betrothed" We get to be alone by time, by luck, or by misadventure.