Quotes About Isolation

daca iti era luata aceasta unica libertate, cea mai importanta dintre toate, si anume libertatea de a te izola la nevoie de ceilalti oameni, atunci toate celelalte libertati nu valorau nimic. Atunci viata nu mai avea rost.

he lay in his stony crypt like his own corpse, hardly breathing, his heart hardly beating-and yet lived as intensively and dissolutely as ever a rake had lived.

He succeeded in being considered totally uninteresting. People left him alone. And that was all he wanted.

I'm alone a lot of the time, locked away in my room. I talk to myself, but sometimes I forget to answer and get mad at myself so I stop speaking to me which makes me sad because no matter where I go, there I am, stuck in my cell.

The outer and much heavier blast door was on top of Xen, pinning him. He mustn't have gotten out in time and got hit by the EMP. Using all my robotics expertise, I shook him a few times while shouting his name. I got no response and couldn't see a reset button.

Things had to be bad when I was not only conversing with myself, but giving me attitude.

Nobody sees as we do, Patti" he said again. Whenever he said things like that, for a magical space of time, it was as if we were the only two people in the world.

Christmas was coming and there was a pervasive melancholy, as if everyone simultaneously remembered they had nowhere to go. Even

It was unsettling to imagine it alone on the bench without a film, unable to record its own passage into the hands of a stranger.

Murakami is not here anyway, I thought. He is most likely somewhere else, sealed in a space capsule in the center of a field of lavender, laboring over words.

There were no ashtrays and no sign of my philosophic cowpoke. I sensed he had been heading this way and most likely, spotting the spanking new paint job, just kept on going. I looked around. Nothing to hold me here, either, not even the dried carcass of a dead bee.

It occurred to me that I was on a run of suicides. Akutagawa. Dazai. Plath. Death by water, barbiturates, and carbon monoxide poisoning; three fingers of oblivion, outplaying everything.

where there were angels I saw no one. nothing. not even space.

me and a score of slackers, comfortably isolated from the world, attaining our own brand of holiday well-being, no gifts, no Christ child, no tinsel or mistletoe, only a sense of complete freedom.

Happily there seemed to be an actual human choosing songs with abandoned disconnect.

I paced while he slept, ricocheting like a dove skidding the lonely confines of a Joseph Cornell box.

I was my own lucky hand of solitaire.

For the first time, I lived alone... in a luxury apartment on Sunset Strip. For a few days I loved the idea, but I got lonely and restless.

I think my real depressions started when I was about 16 and doing The Patty Duke Show. I would go to bed at about 10 o'clock on a Friday night and not get up again until 6:30 Monday morning.

But now Americans, they felt a sense of peace and protection because they've been separated by so many thousands of miles of ocean. And you know, the fact that it's come to the U.S. like this is so sad, and yet you know, what can you do? It's here.

What Salinger found when he examined their world in a fiercely realistic way was an assemblage of unhappy people living unfulfilled lives.

Libraries aren't in the real world, after all. They're places apart, sanctuaries of pure thought. In this way I can go on living on the moon for the rest of my life.

Writing is a solitary business. It takes over your life. In some sense, a writer has no life of his own. Even when he's there, he's not really there.

Every book is an image of solitude. It is a tangible object that one can pick up, put down, open, and close, and its words represent many months if not many years, of one man's solitude, so that with each word one reads in a book one might say to himself that he is confronting a particle of that solitude