Quotes About Desolation

And way across, on the other side, this is crazy, but I thought I saw that hotel you talked about. Then I blinked my eyes—the wind was so strong they were tearing up—and when I looked again, it was gone." Bucky doesn't smile. "You're not the only person who's seen that. I'm not a superstitious man, but I wouldn't go anywhere near where the Overlook Hotel used to stand. Bad stuff happened there.

At three in the morning the gaudy paint is off that old whore, the world, and she has no nose and a glass eye. Gaiety becomes hollow and brittle, as in Poe's castle surrounded by the Red Death. Horror is destroyed by boredom. Love is a dream.

Loneliness is a shadow of death

I have no emotions. I just stand there, in the rubble of my life.This… this was my home. If it were a person, this would be a gaping chest wound, the kind no one can recover from.

What do you call the Hrothgar-wrecker when Hrothgar has been wrecked?

One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way.

Love: a burnt match skating in a urinal.

Having nothing, nothing can he lose.

The dark was oppressive, unrelieved by any neighbouring buildings or sodium light. It felt primeval,

I don't think I had ever felt lonelier in my life.

Sometimes she wondered how it were possible to be so far from the sea and still feel as if she were drowning.

Desolating any luminous conditions except those of functionality, 24/7 is part of an immense incapacitation of visual experience.

Sometimes there aren't words, Benny knew. Sometimes there are hurts so deep that they exist in a country that has no spoken language, a place where all landscapes are blighted and no sun ever shines. Benny had left his footprints in the dust of that place.

Sometimes there are hurts so deep that they exist in a country that has no spoken language, a place where all landscapes are blighted and no sun ever shines.

Mr Lockwood,' he said slowly. 'It's like the end of the world.

Cities get me down. Almost as if I am underground. London is particularly bad. Cold, grey, heavy with odours and rain. It makes me long for the south. For the deserts and the blank blue sky.

You're thinking about one woman while trying to reach another, and despite this apparent abundance of women, you feel lonely and desolate as hell, and, almost unconsciously, you drive to the house of a third, and the third woman is your mother.

Pensavo al mio romanzo, La settimana bianca. Romand mi aveva detto che quel libro raccontava esattamente la sua infanzia. Pensavo al grande vuoto bianco che si era scavato a poco a poco dentro di lui fino a lasciare soltanto un simulacro di uomo vestito di nero, un baratro da cui proveniva la corrente d'aria gelida che faceva rabbrividire il disegnatore.

They is no place for me in this world , I am surround by many people but still feel alone.

The smell of peace is abroad, the air is cold, the skies are brittle, and the leaves have finally fallen. I wear a pony coat with skin like watered silk and muff of lamb. My fingers lie in depths of warmth. I have a jacket of silver sequins and heavy bracelets of rich corals. I wear about my neck a triple thread-like chain of lapis lazulis and pearls. On my face is softness and content like a veil of golden moonlight. And I have never in all my lives been so lonely.

No one could bear the idea of the White City lying empty and desolate. A Cosmopolitan writer said, "Better to have it vanish suddenly, in a blaze of glory, than fall into gradual disrepair and dilapidation. There is no more melancholy spectacle than a festal hall, the morning after the banquet, when the guests have departed and the lights are extinguished.

Immerse yourself in the mesmerising patchwork of flatland invaded by water, desolate roads of industrial obsolescence, and a dark history

Black trees against an orange sky, Trees that the wind shook terribly, Like a harsh spume along the road, Quavering up like withered arms, Writhing like streams, like twisted charms Of hot lead flung in snow. Below The iron ice stung like a goad, Slashing the torn shoes from my feet, And all the air was bitter sleet.

I said 'It can't go on' and he said 'No, it can't.' Honestly, I don't think I could have mattered less to him by then. But by then, nothing mattered to him.