Quotes About Desolation

What a degraded cosmos.

De qué otra forma puede explicarse la interminable secuencia de desastres, sufrimiento gratuito, desolación pública y privada que caracteriza a la condición humana?

One day or another, it is true, dust, supposing it persists, will probably begin to gain the upper hand over domestics, invading the immense ruins of abandoned buildings, deserted dockyards; and, at that distant epoch, nothing will remain to ward off night-terrors, for lack of which we have become such great book-keepers...

Le monde sent la mort Les oiseaux volent les yeux crevés Tu es sombre comme un ciel noir.

Quelque chose se cassait, quelque chose s'est cassé. Tu ne te sens plus - comment dire? - soutenu : quelque chose qui, qui, te semblait-il, te semble-t-il, t'as jusqu'alors réconforté, t'a tenu chaud au coeur, le sentiment de ton existence, de ton importance presque, l'impression d'adhérer, de baigner dans le monde, se met à te faire défaut.

Perhaps, if she could be busy all the time, as she meant to be, she might not feel so unhappy; perhaps, in household cares, she could forget her love, or grow at least accustomed to desolation.

I could never fancy any other female. Never shall! That's why you see me now, a lonely man, with no one to care for, and no one to care a straw for me!' As he presented the appearance of a comfortable hedonist, Kit was bereft of words.

hopeless gloom.

And the air was rent with cries of the living glaring at the rotted bones and rags of their kin and friends just a-swingin in the winds circling about the land, and pulling the bones and rags--some crumbling and dry, some still squirming with the worms eating away at them--from those once mighty roots, and putting them back in the gaping holes.

And when I don't feel it, it's pointless. Think about getting up it's pointless. Think about eating it's pointless. Think about dressing it's pointless. Think about speaking it's pointless. Think about dying only it's totally fucking pointless.

No matter how she beseeched the stars for guidance, their light remained far awar and cold; they provided no answers and no comfort.

There is another kind of suffering, though, a pure agony, free from thought.

Beyond the window, snow fell like frozen drops of poison.

I can hear broken edges, failures, a great emptiness where there should be beauty. I can hear a faint, sobbing thread of song, running through the desolution like a tickle of tainted water through a battlefield strewn with corpses. It is all my fault. I cannot remember how or why, but I can feel my guilt in everything I touch.

I felt as if I walked inside a cold shadow, a shadow cast by bricks and mortar.

He was older than me and a hocus and educated and he talked flash, and he made like that was all there was to it, and it was him doing me the favor, being out here in the middle of absolutely fucking nothing, with the sky like some kind of monster, just waiting 'til you weren't watching to lean down and swallow you whole.

There are no gardens in the Mirador. Only graveyards.

There's not supposed to be anything left after the end of the world, even if the end of the world doesn't quite happen.

Emptiness and loneliness consume you. Physically you're alive, but mentally you're dying inside.

For a time, all was still: for the yards there, like the grounds, are desperately bleak, all dirt and gravel—there is not so much as a blade of grass to be shivered by the breezes, or a worm or a beetle for a bird to swoop for.

What was the use of her being alive? Her heart was some desiccated thing: a prune, a fossil, a piece of clinker. Her mouth might as well be filled with ashes. It was all utterly hopeless and futile...

And being alone and being lonely were two different things but they felt exactly the same: they felt horrible.

They closed the transient 5th Avenue Motel and now where will they go? They came from all over to stay for a night or a month or whatever they could afford, however they can afford it – and now it's gone, broken windows boarded up, chain link fence surrounding it like it's a dog with scurvy. The transient hotel drained pale, pissing in an empty ashtray.

He withdrew then, leaving [him] standing in the bloody morning sunlight, leaving him all alone at the heart of his fortress, for the second time, with nothing but a corpse for company.