Quotes About Desolation

What remained lost was the revelation that nothing ever known has ended in glory; that all which ends does so in exhaustion, confusion and debris.

Scaccerò ogni dolcezza dal mio cuore e assorbirò l'orrore; ucciderò l'amore, i pensieri di donna, lasciandone i cadaveri a decomporsi nella mia mente, sperando che i loro vermi mordano; senza l'aspetto di un uomo saprò comunque generare molto dall'odio: sarò padre di un mondo di fantasmi e avrò la tomba e la carcassa.

Her hands were empty now, as empty as her heart, which itself was a coconut shell with its meat scooped out.

I was alone. In ways people aren't supposed to be alone.

It would have been the middle of nowhere if it had been closer to other places.

I am a man who believes nothing, hopes nothing, fears nothing, feels nothing. I am beyond the pale of humanity [...]

It was as if he were in a place that the whole world had forgotten; as if it were snowing at the end of the world.

A man could be at the coffee-house every evening laughing and playing cards with his friends, he could have so much fun with his classmates that there is never a moment they arent´t exploding into laughter, he could spend every hour of the day chatting with his intimates, but if that man has been abandoned by God, he´d still be the loneliest man on earth.

It is no more possible to take pride in these neglected dwellings, in which dirt, dust and mud have blended into their surroundings, than it is to rejoice in the beautiful old wooden houses that as a child I watched burn down one by one.

the desolation and remoteness of the place hit him with such force that he felt God inside him.

He looked at his dry old hand and it seemed to him that in this atmosphere, he had himself become more reptilian than human. "I am caught by the dry, drab enturtlement of old, old age," he murmured, but the voice was weak and the robots did not hear him.

Then they set out along the blacktop in the gunmetal light, shuffling through the ash, each the other's world entire.

Suppose you were the last one left? Suppose you did that to yourself?

The truth is that the forms I see have been slowly emptied out. They no longer have any content. They are shapes only. A train, a wall, a world. Or a man. A thing dangling in senseless articulation in a howling void. No meaning to its life. Its words. Why would I seek the company of such a thing? Why?

When we're all gone at last then there'll be nobody here but death and his days will be numbered too. He'll be out in the road there with nothing to do and nobody to do it to. He'll say: where did everybody go? And that's how it will be. What's wrong with that?

The wind sounded of Mother Earth's forsaken and abandoned cries.

Dear friend now in the dusty clockless hours of the town when the streets lie black and steaming in the wake of the watertrucks and now when the drunk and the homeless have washed up in the lee of walls in alleys or abandoned lots and cats go forth highshouldered and lean in the grim perimeters about, now in these sootblacked brick or cobbled corridors where lightwire shadows make a gothic harp of cellar doors no soul shall walk save you.

This is a terrible place to die in. Where's a good one?

The soft black talc blew through the streets like squid ink uncoiling along a sea floor and the cold crept down and the dark came early and the scavengers passing down the steep canyons with their torches trod silky holes in the drifted ash that closed behind them silently as eyes.

in that cold autistic dark.

The incinerate corpses shrunk to the size of a child and propped on the bare springs of the seats. Ten thousand dreams ensepulchred within their crozzled hearts.

Here is a story. The last of all men who stands alone in the universe while it darkens about him. Who sorrows all things with a single sorrow. Out of the pitiable and exhausted remnants of what was once his soul he'll find nothing from which to craft the least thing godlike to guide him in these last of days.

It took two days to cross that ashen scabland. The road beyond fell away on every side. It's snowing, the boy said. He looked at the sky. A single gray flake sifting down. He caught it in his hand and watched it expire there like the last host of christendom.

Creedless shells of men tottering down the causeways like migrants in a feverland.