Quotes About Isolation

I do believe that it takes a strong dose of alienation to make a good artist or writer in the modern world. You can't be too well-adjusted and still have anything interesting to say.

I wanted to go hide. I wasn't looking to be more famous, I'm famous enough.

Despite all the positive psychological attributes of hatred we have outlined, hatred destroys finally the core of the life of the hater. While it lasts, burning in white heat, its effect seems positive and dynamic. But at last it turns to ash, for it guarantees a final isolation from one's fellows. It blinds the individual to all values of worth, even as they apply to himself and to his fellows. Hatred bears deadly and bitter fruit. It is blind and nondiscriminating.

The other alternative in the nonresistance pattern is to reduce contact with the enemy to a minimum. It is the attitude of cultural isolation in the midst of a rejected culture. Cunning the mood may be—one of bitterness and hatred, but also one of deep, calculating fear. To take up active resistance would be foolhardy, for a thousand reasons. The only way out is to keep one's resentment under rigid control and censorship.

Beiden schenen wij het gevoel te hebben de laatste bewoners te zijn van een uit haar voegen gerukte wereld waarover de tijd was stilgevallen.

The bodies went back in the doors and bars and the heads in the windows. The cops drove away and Freddy and the guys went back into the Greeks and the street was quiet, just the sound of a tug and an occasional car; and even the blood couldn't be seen from a few feet away.

Writing is a lonely are at times, we spend so much of our time locked in a room and never know if we are reaching anyone...

That's why you can't be worried about the world. They'll just do you in anyway. You can't depend on them because sooner or later they'll turn on you or just disappear and leave you there alone.

He looked down at the street, and the unbroken whiteness, and watched his foot touch the snow and listened to the slight crunching sound as he stepped forward. He looked back at his footprints. They were fascinating. He had been the only one to walk along this street today. There wasn't even the mark of a dog or squirrel, or the scratch of a bird. He continued through the soft, silent snow, a feeling of peace starting to flow through him, helping make his step lighter and easier.

He flowed deeper and deeper into himself, wrapped in the comforting strength of hate.

Sometimes it seems to stand still. Like you're in a bag and you can't get out and somebody's always telling you that it will get better with time and time just seems to stand still and laugh at you and your pain.

thats why you cant be worried about the world. theyll just do you in anyway. you can't depend on them because sooner or later theyll turn on you or just disapear and leave you there alone.

I feel like I'm working on an oil rig right now. I'm away from home a lot.

I started to think of friends I could lean on for some help, but, as always happened when I attempted this kind of social audit, I realised that far too many of them were abroad, dead, married to people who disapproved of me, or weren't really my friends, now that I came to think of it.

The price of being a sheep is boredom. The price of being a wolf is loneliness. Choose one or the other with great care.

We're all outsiders in a way. We're all alone and can become very lonely.

Tides" The evening advances, then withdraws again Leaving our cups and books like islands on the floor. We are drifting, you and I, As far from another as the young heroes Of these two novels we have just laid down. For that is happiness: to wander alone Surrounded by the same moon, whose tides remind us of ourselves, Our distances, and what we leave behind. The lamp left on, the curtains letting in the light. These things were promises. No doubt we will come back to them.

We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and—in spite of True Romance magazines—we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely—at least, not all the time—but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don't see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.

Difficulty relaxing    Insomnia    Impatience    Taking on too much responsibility      Recent major life change (marriage, divorce, birth of child, death of close relative, purchase of home, new job, loss of job, etc.)    Irritability    Tension headaches    Sense of isolation from others    Difficulty delegating  

Exile. It is not simply being homeless. Rather, it is knowing that you do have a home, but that your home has been taken over by enemies. Exile. It is not being without roots. On the contrary, it is having deep roots which have now been plucked up, and there you are, with roots dangling, writhing in pain, exposed to a cold and jeering world, longing to be restored to native and nurturing soil. Exile is knowing precisely where you belong, but knowing that you can't go back, not yet.

The suicide hour of cold coffee and alien voices on the radio.

The line of traffic advancing towards the rising sun looked like a procession of the returning dead. Every one of them, solitaries in clean shirts, smoking, checking mirrors to see if their reflections were still there, wore dark glasses.

You can be so much in a room that the world outside turns to water. You've got the heater blowing out burnt air, but you still don't get warm. Your ankles are singed, but your head's in a bucket of ice. Time drips like a stalactite. The water for the coffee boils away in a tree of steam.

Boredom sends up a flare: meaning exists here, boredom beckons, but stranded meaning. Meaning that requires rescue.