Quotes About Isolation

Time had lost its multidimensional scope. There was only the present for Robert Neville; a present based on dayto-day survival, marked by neither heights of joy nor depths of despair. I am predominantly vegetable, he often thought to himself. That was the way he wanted it

Why do you want me to stay?" she asked unhappily. He looked at her without a definite answer in his mind. Then he said, "Even if you are infected, I can't let you go out there. You don't know what they'd do to you." Her eyes closed. "I don't care," she said. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN "I don't understand it," he told her over supper.

All without knowing what it was to love and be loved. That was a tragedy more terrible than becoming a vampire.

There was no sound but that of his shoes and the now senseless singing of birds. Once I thought they sang because everything was right with the world, Robert Neville thought. I know now I was wrong. They sing because they're feeble-minded.

With words I have knit my shroud and will bury myself therein

Rather than go on suffering, he had learned to stultify himself to introspection. Time had lost its multidimensional scope. There was only the present for Robert Neville; a present based on day-to-day survival marked by neither heights of joy nor depths of despair. I am predominantly vegetable, he often thought to himself. That was the way he wanted it.

He was out hunting for Cortman. It had become a relaxing hobby, hunting for Cortman; one of the few diversions left to him.

Thinking about it, he almost forgot that nightfall was approaching. With a start he looked up and saw Ben Cortman running at him from across the street. "Neville!" He jumped up from the porch and ran into the house, locking and bolting the door behind him with shaking hands.

I stood there feeling nowhere.

Jetzt wusste er, dass sie tatsächlich Angst vor ihm hatten, so wie seinesgleichen einst Angst vor ihnen gehabt hatte, den schrecklichen Gestalten der Legende. Für sie war er die Geißel der Menschheit, der neuen Gesellschaft [...] Für sie war er bisher ein unsichtbares Schreckgespenst gewesen, das als grauenvollen Beweis seiner Existenz die blutleeren Leichen derer, die sie liebten, zurückgelassen hatte. [...] Ich bin Legende!

Gladys took a supper tray upstairs to Mother, who said she could not face anybody anymore that night or maybe ever. Lucille was a worse case. She stalked through all the rooms staring up at the ceilings like she was planning to take her cue from Captain Campbell and hang herself from a light fixture.

He stayed inside his perfect silence, hung on the stopped, forward edge of nowhere

She sat on her porch those first nights, wrapped in the brackish tidal air. The future's breeze split across her face and joined up again behind her. She felt herself a spinster whose sudden new suitor must be either sadistic, blind, or a confused fortune hunter. She'd read all the cautionary fairy tales and knew the one inevitable outcome. Still, she consented to this courtship, and even decided to court it back.

When removed from their kind, individual human beings can change in remarkable ways .

There was a planet that couldn't figure out where everyone was. It died of loneliness. That happened billions of times in our galaxy alone.

every boy carries a variation on hanging himself in the backyard branches in the rain. At least the one I saw did. I love nobody. I feel I am on the verge of loving everybody. Then I step outside my room. And he is waiting there.

The loneliness of writing is that you baffle your friends and change the lives of strangers.

The pen moves; the ideas form, as if by spirit hand. Something shines out, a truth so self-evident that the words dictate themselves. We're cashing in a billion years of planetary savings bonds and blowing it on assorted bling. And what Douglas Pavlicek wants to know is why this is so easy to see when you're by yourself in a cabin on a hillside, and almost impossible to believe once you step out of the house and join several billion folks doubling down on the status quo.

IN THE FALL, with his wife in the basement studying Latin, Winston Ma, once Ma Sih Hsuin to everyone who knew him, sits under the crumbling mulberry and, with Verdi's Macbeth blasting out the bedroom window, puts a Smith & Wesson 686 with hardwood grips up to his temple and spreads the workings of his infinite being across the flagstones of the backyard.

For the first time, she realizes that being alone is a contradiction in terms. Even in a body's most private moments, something else joins in.

He has always been alien to her, a man of procedures where there should be passions. Now she wonders if he might have died, once, too.

There was a planet that couldn't figure out where everyone was. It died of loneliness. That happened billions of times in our galaxy alone.

Sol 3, that little blue dot, had a lot going for it, when you could get away from the dominant species long enough to clear your head.

She has lived far from commerce for decades, and yet her name is a hot commodity, bought and sold endlessly as she sits in her cabin reading Thoreau. She hopes the buyers aren't paying much. No: she hopes they're being extorted.