Quotes About Isolation

even on medication, there is nothing tempting enough to make me want to rise

Should you chance to read it a second or third time, Wuthering Heights comes at you afresh, in part because the novel seems to vanish into its own delirious origins once you've finished it, leaving no footprints, and in part because it is a literary force of nature such as you've never encountered before.

Once there was a little doll. Her name was Edith. She lived in a nice house and had everything she needed except somebody to play with. She was very lonely!

I hate how it's so much easier to be open and straightforward to a computer screen than to an actual person.

Of the five hundred who entered the winter, only sixty were alive by March. The situation was so desperate that they resorted to cannibalism.

Mr. Crepsley was every bit as composed as he'd sworn he would be. He didn't even shed a tear when the funeral litter was set alight. It was only later, when he was alone in his cell, that he wept loudly, and his cries echoed through the corridors and the tunnels of Vampire Mountain, far in the cold, lonely dawn.

If I had an ordinary illness, I'm sure they could fix me. But I've seen demons rip my world to pieces. Nobody believes that, so nobody knows what I'm going through. I'm alone. I always will be. That's my life now. That's just the way it is.

nobody in the entire world will ever say anything to me again.

After all, in this world of humans, he was little better than a monster, and what did a monster have to be afraid of in the dark?

Mr. Crepsley was every bit as composed as he'd sworn he would be. He didn't even shed a tear when the funeral litter was set alight. It was only later, when he was alone in his cell, that he wept loudly, and his cries echoed through the corridors and tunnels of Vampire Mountain, far into the cold, lonely dawn.

This damned burg's getting me. If I don't get away soon I'll be going blood-simple like the natives.

I don't get away soon I'll be going blood-simple like the natives.

It's a long while since I burst out crying because policemen didn't like me.

Nobody understands how hard it is, being a captain.

There was nowhere to sit except the bunk, which was covered with rotting food, and a wooden stool, upon which sat a large fur-covered lump—an old cheese, perhaps, or a dead cat.

For all I know, some of my close friends could be dead. The only way to find out would be to call them up and talk to them about what's going on in their lives, and I never do that. I think this is true of many guys, even the ones who are not Humor Personalities: we do not view talking about our personal lives as an acceptable activity.

Laugh and the world laughs with you (unless you're at a funeral), cry and you cry alone.

Here though, there are no oppressors. No one's forcing you to do this. You willingly tie yourself to these leashes. And you willingly become utterly socially autistic. You no longer pick up on basic human communication clues. You're at a table with three humans, all of whom are looking at you and trying to talk to you, and you're staring at a screen! Searching for strangers in... Dubai!

It was not knowing that was the seed of madness, loneliness, suspicion, fear.

Nothing again. No one is listening. No one is waiting to hear the kicking of a man above. It is unexpected. You have no ears for someone like me.

Outside the walls of the Circle, all was noise and struggle, failure and filth. But here, all had been perfected. The best people had made the best systems and the best systems had reaped funds, unlimited funds

If a boy became sick he walked alone; the others were afraid to catch what he had, and did not want to know him too well for he would surely die soon. We did not want his voice in our heads.

Not many songs can fend off evil. But the right song with the right voice can be a weapon; anyone who's listened to music through headphones while riding the subway or plowing angrily through a rush-hour sidewalk knows how it can and separate you from them, allows you to say to the teeming masses that you are this and they are that.

This is the peculiar problem of constant connectivity: any silence of more than a few hours provokes apocalyptic thoughts.