Quotes About Desolation

The moonlight returned and brightened. The Dead Sea shone like a barrel of oil, sparks of light shot out from it illuminating the mountainsides, and from the mountains one could see bonfires. Since I was sad, I thought of things that make one even sadder.

Ben... Ate? gibi yanan kalbimin s?cakl???n? ne kadar sarf etsem bu so?uk tabakay? ?s?tamayaca??m? anl?yorum. Ad?mlar?m hiç kimseninkine uymuyor. Herkes beni yolun ortas?nda b?rak?veriyor... Yolun ortas?nda... Herkes...

I am like a room where things once happened and now nothing does, except the pollen of the weeds that grow up outside the window, blowing in as dust across the floor.

I am like a room where things once happened and now nothing does, except the pollen of the weeds that grow up inside the window, blowing in as dust across the floor.

I can listen to my own heartbeat against the bedsprings, I can stroke myself, under the dry white sheets, in the dark, but I too am dry and white, hard, granular; it's like running my hand over a plateful of dried rice; it's like snow. There's something dead about it, something deserted. I am like a room where things once happened and now nothing does, except the pollen of the weeds that grow up outside the window, blowing in as dust across the floor.   Here

Why couldn't the two of them have gone on and on forever? Himself and Constance, sun and moon, each one of them shining, though in different ways. Instead of which he's here, forsaken by her, abandoned. In time, which fails to sustain him. In space, which fails to cradle him.

A chair, a table, a lamp. Above, on the white ceiling, a relief ornament in the shape of a wreath, and in the center of it a blank space, plastered over, like the place in a face where the eye has been taken out. There must have been a chandelier, once. They've removed anything you could tie a rope to.

But not, surely, for the first time in human history. How many others have stood in this place? Left behind, with all gone, all swept away. The dead bodies evaporating like slow smoke; their loved and carefully tended homes crumbling away like deserted anthills. Their bones reverting to calcium; night predators

I had no direction in life, and I felt numb inside, like an orphan.

Too much of the world was inhospitable, intractable... Why prove that it had ever once been green?

A frost lay over all her emotions and she thought that she would never feel anything warmly again.

Through the window, in the faint light of the rising moon, Tara stretched before her, negroes gone, acres desolate, barns ruined, like a body bleeding under her eyes, like her own body, slowly bleeding. This was the end of the road, quivering old age, sickness, hungry mouths, helpless hands plucking at her skirts. And at the end of this road, there was nothing—nothing but Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton, nineteen years old, a widow with a little child.

Sometimes I wonder will God ever forgive us for what we've done to each other? Then I look around and I realize God left this place a long time ago.

Something's died in me," she goes. "It took a long time for it to do it, but it's dead. You've killed something, just like you'd took an axe to it. Everything is dirt now.

The desolation and terror of, for the first time, realizing that the mother can lose you, or you her, and your own abysmal loneliness and helplessness without her.

February is a suitable month for dying. Everything around is dead, the trees black and frozen so that the appearance of green shoots two months hence seems preposterous, the ground hard and cold, the snow dirty, the winter hateful, hanging on too long.

And yet, how dreary to turn my eyes from the contemplation of that bright object and force them to dwell on the dull, grey, desolate prospect around: the joyless, hopeless, solitary path that lay before me.

you have blighted the promise of youth, and made my life a wilderness!

You have blighted the freshness and promise of youth, and made my life a wilderness!

My soul is sick of solitude.

An empty day, though clear and bright. Is just as dark as any night.

Sometimes I can't look you in the eye; you're like a building that's burned out inside, with the outer wall still standing.

A place so empty it was not even haunted

That was the worst truth of all: alone. The word was a kind of death.