Quotes About Desolation

And then they left, and all was quiet, but it wasn't peaceful. Just empty.

The delusion of entertainment is devoid of meaning. It may amuse us for a bit, but after the initial hit we are left with the dark feeling of desolation.

I quite like post-apocalyptic films, things like 'Mad Max' for instance, because they are so full on and there is something quite cleansing about the post-apocalyptic because you can see where we all think we're heading.

Soul rotted before my eyes.

Years have passed since my heart's been anyone's destination,/ and its wounds, in this desolation,/ have lost their sheen--/ Whom can I possibly ask to pour color into them? --from "Two Elegies: 1. Appointments

No duerme nadie por el mundo. Nadie, nadie. No duerme nadie. Hay un muerto en el cementerio más lejano que se queja tres años porque tiene un paisaje seco en la rodilla;

La Soleá" All in this world has broken. All that's left is silence. (Leave me in this field weeping.)

Ante mis ojos, inútilmente abiertos, se extiende la noche profunda, la noche vacía, el negro definitivo donde todo lo que alienta, tarde o temprano, se deshace.

just the bare bones of a name, all rock and ice and storm and abyss. It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars. It has the nakedness of the world before the first man – or of the cindered planet after the last

Departe de tine, inima mea este aidoma unei ferestre sparte.

Ye who have laid your love to rest, And wept above their lifeless clay, Know not the anguish of that breast, Whose lov'd are rudely torn away. Ye may not know how desolate, Are bosoms rudely forced to part, And how a dull and heavy weight, Will press the life-drops from the heart.

Winter lives under a pigeon's wing, a dead wing with damp feathers.

When you write my epitaph, you must say I was the loneliest person who ever lived.

Feelings flake off and fall in dust. The senses, vitrified, can no longer experience pleasure; they crack at the least provocation. Each of us, within, was as if devoured by a conflagration, and our hearts were no more than a pinch of ashes. Our souls were laid waste. For a long time now we had believed in nothing, not even in nothingness.

Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy, And in the withered fields where the farmer ploughs for bread in vain.

My empty waterdish mocks me.

The glass is cut, the bottle run dry. Our love runs cold in the caverns of the night.

Loneliness was also the young woman in black who came almost every day to the Polytechnic. She knew exactly which of all the tangled skeletons lying on the cold concrete were those of her little girl and her husband. She would go straight to one of the sixty-four doors of Murambi and stand in the middle of the room before two intertwined corpses: a man clutching a decapitated child against him. The young woman in black prayed in silence, and then left.

Raisa Mora's street was packed with seen-better-days row houses. Maya found the right address and headed up steps of cracked concrete. She pressed the buzzer, listened for footsteps, heard nothing. Smashed bottles lined the walk. Two doors down a man in an open flannel shirt over a wifebeater tee gave her a toothless smile. They

I ducked inside, my mind still numb. The stench came first, the acid smells of urine and the never-mistaken stink of fecal matter. Something was burning—I think I knew what—and the damp yellow odor of sweat seemed to be coming from the walls. But there was something else here. The smell, not of death, but of predeath, like gangrene, like something dying and decomposing while still breathing. The

Newark, New Jersey. The bad part. Almost a redundancy. Decay was the first word that came to mind. The buildings were more than falling apart - they actually seemed to be breaking down, melting from some sort of acid onslaught. Here urban renewal was about as familiar a concept as time travel. The surroundings looked more like a war newsreel - Frankfurt after the Allies' bombing - than a habitable dwelling.

FJ's eyes slithered toward Myron. Myron kept up the eye contact, but there was still nothing there, like looking into the windows of an abandoned building.

I see no human beings. My phone never rings. I'm so very old and so very lonely. I hear from no one.

Nothing is more deadly than a deserted, waiting street.