Quotes About Desolation

No, one could speak neither of distressed or of destitute; this street was, instead, smiling and terrible, much like the expression of intelligence and generosity that the faces of the dead have. It was a dead street, or at least that's how I defined it to myself, hoping to be able to find later a less vehement and irrational description, something that turned out to be impossible.

Darkness was already coming down like a cloak on the deserted streets,

Misery is a heart that can never be content with what it has and, by always craving something more, brings about its own destruction. And desolation is a heart so fearful of losing what it hoards that it never knows the richness that comes from being able to give.

There is a loneliness that fills the plain. Total. Lunar.

trapped in his own bad apple. Each morning a shock to return to the cut soul.

El frío baja desmochado desde el hueso de luna del cielo.

Silence in the shell of a city, no baby crying, no car honking, no ambulance shrieking, no lovers moaning, no drunks throwing up in the alley, no lights, nothing but wind and rain and snow in its season and rust and a rattling of open doors and carcass smell. It was a possibility like a brain tumor or a scorpion bite.

The town does not exist except where one black-haired tree slips up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.

This book will bring little joy to the reader.

Nous avions été unies par une déréliction simplement décalée dans le temps. Et cet après-midi-là, j'avais dû mon courage de vivre à la chanson d'une femme qui, plus tard, se perdrait jusqu'à en mourir.

Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me, and drench me in loneliness.

I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others--young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life.

I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.

It was a dark afternoon, threatening rain and the end of the world, and done in that particularly gloomy gray in which only New York afternoons indulge. A breeze was crying down the streets, whisking along battered newspapers and pieces of things, and little lights were pricking out all the windows- it was so desolate that one was sorry for the tops of sky-scrapers lost up there in the dark green and gray heaven.

This is a valley of ashes - a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the form of houses and chimneys and riding smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air.

Wilson's glazed eyes turned out to the ashheaps, where small gray clouds took on fantastic shape and scurried here and there in the faint dawn wind.

This was a valley of ashes – a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air.

and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.

They awoke, nauseated and tired, dispirited with life, capable only of one pervasive emotion – fear.

the drought in the marrow of his bones. He

This is a valley of ashes - a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air.

a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of ash-gray men who move dimly and already crumbling though the powdery air.

There are moments, such as the one that oppresses me now, when I feel my own self far more than I feel external things, and everything transforms into a night of rain and mud where, lost in the solitude of an out-of-the-way station, I wait interminably for the next third-class train.

An anxiety for being me, forever trapped in myself, floods my whole being without finding a way out, shaping me into tenderness, fear, sorrow and desolation. An inexplicable surfeit of absurd grief, a sorrow so lonely, so bereft, so metaphysically mine...