Quotes About Isolation

Our stereotyping societies force us to feel more alone. They stamp masks on us and isolate out real selves. We all live in two worlds: the old comfortable man-centred world of absolutes and the harsh real world of relatives. The latter, the relativity reality, terrifies us; and isolates and dwarfs us all.

But he was absolutely alone. No one ever wrote to him. Visited him. Totally alone. And I believe the happiest man I have ever met.

Man is an everlack, an infinite withoutness, afloat on an apparently endless ocean of apparently endless indifference to individual things. Obscurely he sees catastrophes happening to other rafts, rafts that are too distant for him to determine whether they have other humans aboard, but too numerous and too identical for him to presume that they have not.

Sunt plin? de singur?tate byronian?, dar n?am nici una dintre supapele de desc?rcare ale poetului: geniul ?i adulterul.

I'm so far from everything. From normality. From light. From everything I want to be.

Think what it would be like if you got back to your island and there was no old man, no girl any more. No mysterious fun and games. The whole place locked up forever.

But though one may keep the wolves from one's door, they still howl out there in the darkness.

It is not the state of war that isolates. It is well known, it brings people together. But in the battlefield -- that is something different. Because that is when the real enemy, death, appears. I no longer saw any warmth in numbers. I saw only Thanatos in them, my death. And just as much in my own comrades, in Montague, as in the invisible Germans.

Besides, in such wells of loneliness is not any coming together closer to humanity than perversity?

Hemos estado completamente desnudos uno frente al otro... ¡No podemos estar más separados, sin embargo! Pero lo estamos

Nadie, desde fuera de ella, puede imaginar lo que es la vida en una prisión. Uno piensa que, bueno, al menos tendrá horas para leer y pensar, y que el tiempo no pasará tan mal. Pero pasa terriblemente mal. Con una exasperante lentitud.

Under the silver nailparing of a moon. I felt, though without any melancholy at all, that sense of existential solitude, the being and being alone in a universe, that still nights sometimes give.

Omul nu este o insul?. - Prostii, aiurea! Fiecare din noi este o insul?. Dac? nu am fi, am înnebuni pe loc. Între aceste insule sunt vapoare, avioane, telefoane, radio - ce vrei. Oamenii r?mân insule. Insule care se pot scufunda È™i pot disp?rea pentru vecie. Tu eÈ™ti o insul? care nu s-a scufundat. Nu poÈ›i fi atât de pesimist! Nu este posibil.

Estoy tan lejos de todo...! De la normalidad... De la luz... De lo que quiero ser.

Eso de conocer a una persona le hace sentir a una automáticamente cercana a ella. ¡Aunque una desee que estuviese en otro planeta!

Algunas veces tengo un enorme deseo de gritar, hasta que mi voz se rompa, ¡hasta la muerte! No puedo escribir. ¡No hay palabras! ¡Desesperación, total desesperación! He estado así todo el día. Se apodera de mí una especie de pánico, lento, lentísimo... ¿Qué pudo haber pensado él cuando me encerró aquí?

a metaphysical sense of being marooned

My only happiness is when I sleep. When I wake, the nightmare begins. I feel cast on a desert island, imprisoned, condemned, and I know not what crime it is for.

Evolution had turned man into a sharply isolating creature, seeing the world not only anthropocentrically but singly, mirroring the way we like to think of our private selves.

Mechanism! Everywhere – mechanism! Devices for getting away from life so complete that there seemed no life to get away from.

Really you must. Nobody wishes you harm, I'm sure. FALDER. I believe that, Mr. Cokeson. Nobody wishes you harm, but they down you all the same. This feeling — [He stares round him, as though at something closing in] It's crushing me. [With sudden impersonality] I know it is.

It was as if his spirit were in prison. It would have been nice, indeed, to be that water, never staying, passing, passing; or wind, touching everything, never caught. To be able to do nothing without hurting someone - that was what was so ghastly. If only one were like a flower, that just sprang up and lived its life all to itself, and died. But whatever he did, or said now, would be like telling lies, or else being cruel. The only thing was to keep away from people.

FALDER. [Almost eagerly] Yes, sir, but you don't understand what prison is. It's here it gets you. He grips his chest.

A writer is an eternal outsider, his nose pressed against whatever window on the other side of which he sees his material. Resentment sharpens his eye, hostility hones his killer instinct.