Quotes About Desolation

And this disease was called The Loneliness, because when you saw your home town dwindle to the size of your fist and then lemon-size and then pin-size and vanish in the fire-wake, you felt you had never been born, there was no town, you were nowhere, with space all around, nothing familiar, only other strange men.

post-apocalyptic world where death provides the best way out of a ravaged landscape.

going away from the people who ate shadows for breakfast and steam for lunch and vapours for supper.

I couldn't have felt more of lonely desolation somehow, had I been robbed of a belief or had missed my destiny in life...

The wilderness] had caressed him, and—lo!—he had withered; it had taken him, loved him, embraced him, got into his veins, consumed his flesh, and sealed his soul to its own by the inconceivable ceremonies of some devilish initiation.

I looked at him as you peer down at a man who is lying at the bottom of a precipice where the sun never shines.

feeling would not last long. Something would turn up to scare it away. Once, I remember, we came upon a man-of-war anchored off the coast. There wasn't even a shed there, and she was shelling the bush. It appears the French had one of their wars going on thereabouts. Her ensign dropped limp like a rag; the muzzles of the long eight-inch guns stuck out all over the low hull; the greasy, slimy swell swung

and the sound of her low voice seemed to have the accompaniment of all the other sounds, full of mystery, desolation, and sorrow, I had ever heard - the ripple of the river, the soughing of the trees swayed by the wind, the murmurs of the crowds, the faint ring of incomprehensible words cried from afar, the whisper of a voice speaking from beyond the threshhold of an eternal darkness.

camino se apartaba de los peñascos y torcía en presencia de un vagón de tren tirado boca abajo; una de sus ruedas faltaba, y reposaba como el cadáver de un animal desconocido

Can't say I saw any road or any upkeep, unless the body of a middle-aged negro, with a bullet-hole in the forehead, upon which I absolutely stumbled three miles farther on, may be considered as a permanent improvement.

Before it stopped running with a muffled rattle, a cry, a very loud cry, as of infinite desolation, soared slowly in the opaque air. It ceased. A complaining clamour, modulated in savage discords, filled our ears. The sheer unexpectedness of it made my hair stir under my cap. I don't know how it struck the others: to me it seemed as though the mist itself had screamed, so suddenly, and apparently from all sides at once, did this tumultuous and mournful uproar arise.

I seemed at one bound to have been transported into some lightless region of subtle horrors, where pure, uncomplicated savagery was a posi-tive relief, being something that had a right to exist—obviously—in the sunshine.

Abandoned workings had for him strong fascination. Their desolation appealed to him like the sight of human misery, whose causes are varied and profound. They might have been worthless, but also they night have been misunderstood

And to a place I come where nothing shines.

The challenge is, to live in a house from which meaning has departed, like air leaking from a balloon. A slow leak, yet lethal. And one day, the balloon is flat: it is not a balloon any longer. By

The master bedchamber at the top of a flight of badly worn and mossy stone steps, overlaid with grime, and the hard-dried excrement and remains of vermin—overlooking, from its single (barred) window, a marshy graveyard, the aged markers tilted and filthy from neglect, spiky grasses growing all around, and pools of brackish water interspersed among the graves.

Alone, alone! Long she would recall the strangeness of the word, an echo aerated by melancholy vowels—alone. AT

From time to time somewhere in the house the lonely Siamese cat erupted in a high-pitched, piteous yowl, a cry of utter desolation and misery that chilled my blood, as if I had been torturing her, and was to blame for her suffering.

Nothing is more lonely than fucking 'good works.

That town sits on the coals of the earth, at the very mouth of hell. They say that when people from there go to hell, they come back for a blanket.

That town sits on the coals of the earth, at the very mouth of hell. They say that when people from there die and go to hell, they come back for a blanket.

Hace calof aquí- dije. -Si, y esto no es nada- me contestó el otro. Cálmese. Ya lo sentirá mas fuerte cuando lleguemos a Comala. Aquello está sobre las brasas de la tierra, en la mera boca del infierno. Con decirle que muchos de los que allí se mueren, al llegar al infierno regresan por su cobija.

Que dormía, acurrucada, metiéndose dentro de él, perdida en la nada al sentir que se quebraba su carne, que se abría como un surco abierto por un clavo ardoroso, luego tibio, luego dulce dando golpes duros contra su carne blanda; sumiéndose más, hasta el gemido.

Comala'ya vard???m?zda s?ca?? çok daha ÅŸiddetli hissedeceksiniz. Orada insan kendini közlerin üzerinde, cehennemin tam göbeÄŸinde zanneder. Derler ki, ölüp de cehenneme giden Comala'l?lar?n çoÄŸu battaniyelerini almak için geri dönerlermiÅŸ.