Quotes About Desolation

The blues is just another name for not having any place

The funny thing about having all this so-called success is that behind it is a certain horrible emptiness.

I suppose I passed it a hundred times, But I always stop for a minute. And look at the house, the tragic house, The house with nobody in it.

Count, for me with Valentine there could be an infinite, immense, unknown happiness, a happiness too great, too complete and too divine for this world. Since this world has not given it to me, Count, that means that there is nothing for me on earth except despair and desolation.

I have come from a planet called sorrow.

He was Gully Foyle, the oiler, wiper, bunkerman; too easy for trouble, too slow for fun, too empty for friendship, too lazy for love.

There is no sun.

Perhaps in the cold my heart would freeze and I would care nothing for those I was forced to abandon.

Shelby has absolutely nothing inside of her. She's a black hole. A sinkhole. A whole lot of nothing. She's told Ben that, but he doesn't want to believe her. Who would have imagined he'd turn out to be such an optimist?

like the small votives they lit in church.) Sometimes the houses were deserted, even partially destroyed. Sometimes it seemed the families must still be upstairs. There were old bicycles in some, or baby carriages. A steamer trunk, once, filled with broken dishes. A jar of pickled cauliflower.

Do you know how alone I've always felt?

The living room seemed to be where no living ever actually occurred.

She was so alone. Dead to the world. No one to love. No one who loved her.

This is only a record of broken and apparently unrelated memories, some of them as distinct and sequent as brilliant beads upon a thread, others remote and strange, having the character of crimson dreams with interspaces blank and black -- witch-fires glowing still and red in a great desolation.

Over all was that air of abandonment and decay which seems nowhere so fit and significant as in a village of the forgotten dead.

They passed lands that had no name, where fens of mirror pools stretched into unknown distances, thousands of fragments of sky sprinkled across this bastard offspring of earth and sea, lonely birds calling out over the desolation, and Yarvi breathed deep the salt chill and longed for home.

Death and ruin is man's preferred ecosystem.

It was the end of the world, but you could still hit the drive-thru on your way to oblivion.

She wrote she heard them hammering nails all day long and that it was like living next to a coffin maker after a plague. When

The air was rank, and on my left, in a broad green meadow, arranged neatly in pairs, were dead lions and dead walruses and dead gazelles. It was like some horrible parade leading towards a cruel parody of Noah's ark, a ship for everything that was gone and never coming back, everything that would not be saved.

It was a childhood of mud, barking dogs, barbed wire, dilapidated farm buildings, squealing pigs with their flaking skin and squashed-in faces, and little human contact, beyond a mother who sat most of the day at the kitchen table wearing the slack, staring aspect of someone who had been lobotomized, and his father, who ruled their acres of pig shit and ruin with his angry laughter and his fists.

The whole thing made Bill lonely as the last pig in a slaughterhouse line.

She walked past the TV, the smoky blue light illuminating the sharp planes of her face, and I saw that her eyes had the dazed, insomniac glassiness of a long-term drug user or someone who'd been abused so long that she'd ceased to feel anything at all.

Mostly, though, I prefer to believe that God has no grace to give. Because the alternative is that He gives grace capriciously or, even worse, that He plays favorites. Some desolate valleys become places of springs, and others wither until they are sere beyond hope, and if God is the one who chooses which is which then I would rather live in a universe lucky enough to have escaped His notice.