Quotes About Isolation

Every remedy for loneliness only postpones it.

The mountain road brick-red of dust laced with lizard tracks, coming up through the peach orchard, hot, windless, cloistral in a silence of no birds save one vulture hung in the smokeblue void of the sunless mountainside, rocking on the high updrafts, and the road turning and gated with bullbriers waxed and green, and the green cadaver grin sealed in the murky waters of the peach pit, slimegreen skull with newts coiled in the eyesockets and a wig of moss.

Concentrated populations of the deranged assume certain powers. It has an unsettling effect. You spend some time in a nuthouse and you'll see.

They watched storms out there so distant they could not be heard

Well. I guess what I understand is that at the core of the world of the deranged is the realization that there is another world and that they are not a part of it.

like some scurrilous king stripped of his vestiture and driven together with his fool into the wilderness to die.

Pues la hostilidad del mundo le resultaba ahora nuevamente manifiesta y tan fría como debe de serlo para todo aquel que ya no tiene para combatirla otra cosa que sí mismo.

I think maybe it's harder to lose just one thing than to lose everything.

That day there was no sun only a paleness in the haze and the country was white with frost and the shrubs were like polar isomers of their own shapes. Wild rams ghosted away up those rocky draws and the wind swirled down cold and gray from the snowy reeks above them, a smoking region of wild vapors blowing down through the gap as if the world up there were all afire.

Then he waded out into the river like some wholly wretched baptismal candidate.

He is sinking into a darkness he cannot even comprehend. Darkness and immobilizing cold.

There was nothing along the road save the country it traversed and there was nothing in the country at all.

He talked to her a long time and as the boy tending the wolf could not understand what it was he said he said what was in his heart. He made her promises that he swore to keep in the making. That he would take her to the mountains where she would find others of her kind. She watched him with her yellow eyes and in them was no despair but only that same reckonless deep of loneliness that cored the world to its heart.

The moon was already a quarter ways up. All but day bright. He felt like something in a jar.

He was sat as before save headless, drenched in blood, the cigarillo still between his fingers, leaning toward the dark and smoking grotto in the flames where his life had gone. Glanton rose. The men moved away. No one spoke. When they set out in the dawn the headless man was sitting like a murdered anchorite discalced in ashes and sark. Someone had taken his gun but the boots stood where he'd put them.

They watch stoms out there so distant they could not be heard, the silent lightning flaring sheetwise and the thin black spine of the mountain chain fluttering and sucked away again in the dark.

He was trudging out across the field with his chin down so that withdrawing in the firelight he looked like a headless revenant turned away from the warmth of men's gatherings.

He stood in the center of the square where the tracks of commerce lay fossilized in dried mud about him, turning, an amphitheatrical figure in that moonwrought waste manacled to a shadow that struggled grossly in the dust.

Dark and cold and no wind and a thin gray reef beginning along the eastern rim of the world. He walked out on the prairie and stood holding his hat like some supplicant to the darkness over them all and he stood there for a long time.

When the Papayuna is pining you need to call home.

I'm a fugitive from the ways of this world. I'd be a fugitive from my mind if I had me some snow.

Nothing moved in that purgatorial waste save carnivorous birds. By

Memories dim with age. There is no repository for our images. The loved ones who visit us in dreams are strangers. To even see aright is effort. We seek some witness but the world will not provide one. This is the third history. It is the history that each man makes alone out of what is left to him. Bits of wreckage. Some bones. The words of the dead. How make a world of this? How live in that world once made?

El malpaís. Era un laberinto. Subías a toda prisa un pequeño promontorio y de repente te veías rodeado de grietas tan profundas que no te atrevías a saltarlas. Los bordes de cristal negro y puntiagudo y abajo puntiagudas rocas de sílex (...) Donde que nosotros sepamos está localizado el infierno