Quotes About Isolation

This house…she hated this house and all of the ghosts and pain that were trapped within its walls. Trapped, just as she was.

No, no, sometimes a person feels to be alone." "If you're alone too much," Persky said, "you think too much." "Without a life," Rosa answered, "a person lives where they can. If all they got is thoughts, that's where they live." "You ain't got a life?" "Thieves took it.

It seemed to Rosa Lublin that the whole peninsula of Florida was weighted down with regret. Everyone had left behind a real life. Here they had nothing. They were all scarecrows, blown about under the murdering sunball with empty ribcages.

It had always been my habit-- privately I felt it to be an ecstasy-- to enter, as into a mysterious vault, any public library. I was drawn to books that had been read before, novels that girls like myself had cradled and cherished. In my mind-- I suppose in my isolation-- I seized on all those previous readers, and everyone who would read after me, as phantom companions and secret friends.

folks in town already thought she was a few bricks shy of a full load.             "I'm working on it."  Though she couldn't see him, Will's voice was as familiar to her as his face had ever been. He had a beautiful voice: low, with a hint of gravel in the throat. Hearing it now, without the comfort of his physical presence, brought a hollow ache to

She couldn't get any farther away inside from her skin. She couldn't get away.

I may climb perhaps to no great heights, but I will climb alone.

The worst vice of the solitary is the worship of his food.

The only happy talkers are dandies who extract pleasure from the very perishability of their material and who would not be able to tolerate the isolation of all other forms of composition; for most good talkers, when they have run down, are miserable; they know that they have betrayed themselves, that they have taken material which should have a life of its own, to dispense it in noises upon the air.

I am not my own friend. Time cuts me in two.

She got out at Raspail. I was left behind with the immensity of existing things. A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself; a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees.

But there is nothing in me, just fear, nothing but the running of dark waves.

I said so little. Days were short. Short days. Short nights. Short years. I said so little. I couldn't keep up. My heart grew weary From joy, Despair, Ardor, Hope. The jaws of Leviathan Were closing upon me. Naked, I lay on the shores Of desert islands. The white whale of the world Hauled me down to its pit. And now I don't know What in all that was real.

Paradigm He was aware of his task and people were waiting for his words but he was forbidden to speak. Now where he lives he is free to speak but nobody listens and, moreover, he forgot what he had to say.

The essential American soul is hard, isolate, stoic, and a killer.

One doesn't know, till one is a bit at odds with the world, how much one's friends who believe in one rather generously, mean to one.

"Sometimes," said she, "I think that is my permanent feeling towards people. I like the world, the sky and the earth and the greater mystery beyond. But people—yes, they are all monkeys to me."

Perhaps only people who are capable of real togetherness have that look of being alone in the universe. The others have a certain stickiness, they stick to the mass.

She said Mom closed up the house one day, turned the oven on full, and sat by its open door. Apparently it's still a Cry For Help, even though our oven's electric.

had always admired her tremendously but now, quite suddenly, I saw her in a different light: small and pathetic and lonely. She had chosen loneliness because she hated 'getting involved emotionally'. She was afraid of getting hurt. Freedom was what she wanted but it seemed to me a poor substitute for affection. I thought of all she had told me about the pearls; she couldn't wear them; she didn't want to sell them; she hated to shut them up in prison. I

I'll not wheesht! Those children get no fun at all, they're shut up in the attics from one year's end to another — it's a wonder to me if their mother knows them by sight. I wouldn't be them for a good deal." Janet rose as she spoke and flounced out of the room, adding as a parting shot, "The dog has a better life; he's allowed to lie on the hearth-rug anyway.

Because if you walk in a city you're jostled by hundreds of indifferent people with indifferent eyes that look at you as if you weren't there at all. You begin to feel you must be invisible. Hundreds and thousands of eyes, and not one pair really seeing you or caring who you are. I'd rather walk down Beilford High Street and know that everybody was saying, 'There goes the mad painter!' It's better to be mad than invisible." She

I felt weak and silly, and the happiness of the children, as they ran about and shouted at each other, touched a spring in my heart. They were so gay and pretty in the sunshine, like a flock of bright birds flitting to and fro. I had missed all that in my life—all the joys of normal womanhood—I was a very lonely woman, on the way to a lonely old age.

Loneliness is inside a person . . . It is possible to be lonely in a big city. If a person is contented and has enough work to do he will not feel lonely amongst the hills.