Quotes About Isolation

Abel," the chief shouted, "if you don't quit this letter writing, I'm going to have to take serious steps." "Off the end of the old dock, I hope," Grandpa replied as he slammed the door in the chief's face.

Why did people get married seeking a way out of loneliness? There was nothing more lonelier than two married people in a room together. - p.126

staying safely in the ivory tower is much more comfortable for academics,

original topics of research that those who stay cloistered in their ivory towers could never imagine.

Happy, Muriel? No, not happy. Your aim is wrong. There is no such thing as happiness. Life bends joy and pain, beauty and ugliness, in such a way that no one may isolate them. No one should want to. Perfect joy, or perfect pain, with no contrasting element to define them, would mean a monotony of consciousness, would mean death.

There is no such thing as happiness. Life bends joy and pain, beauty and ugliness, in such a way that no one may isolate them.

I almost wish that anyone were here, so I could just talk about anything. I know Harry used to accuse me of being anti-social (because of my not liking parties and shutting myself away painting), but it is a very dreadful and isolating experience not to have exchanged one single word with another human being for as long as I have.

It seems so silly, everyone avoiding everyone. We are all just terrified, I suppose. But what is it that we are terrified of? Are we terrified of catching the disease or are we terrified of being knifed or strangled?

Never ran this hard through the valley never ate so many stars I was carrying a dead deer tied on to my neck and shoulders deer legs hanging in front of me heavy on my chest People are not wanting to let me in Door in the mountain let me in

To be lonely is to feel unwanted and unloved, and therefor unloveable. Loneliness is a taste of death. No wonder some people who are desperately lonely lose themselves in mental illness or violence to forget the inner pain.

Individualistic material progress and the desire to gain prestige by coming out on top have taken over from the sense of fellowship, compassion and community. Now people live more or less on their own in a small house, jealously guarding their goods and planning to acquire more, with a notice on the gate that says, 'Beware of the Dog.

Half of the time I don't know what they're talking about; their jokes seem to relate to a past that everyone but me has shared. I'm a foreigner in the world and I don't understand the language.

j'étais seul au milieu de cette multitude, pris au piège comme une araignée qui se serait enfermée dans sa propre toile.

JistÄ› právÄ› v tom tkví duch Cesty, v touze pojít svÄ›tem proto, aby pÃ…â"¢ed ním ?lovÄ›k unikl, a najít druhé lidi tam, kde nikdo není. Jak napsal Alphonse Allais: "V pustinÄ› se lidé rádi sdružují...

Talent, réussite, succès font de vous un ennemi de l'espèce humaine qui, à mesure qu'elle vous admire plus, se reconnaît moins en vous et préfère vous tenir à distance. Seuls les escrocs, par l'origine triviale de leur fortune, l'acquièrent sans se couper de leurs semblables et même en s'attirant leur sympathie.

Castaways on the shores of loneliness

Are you there, Jean-Do?' she asks anxiously over the air. And I have to admit that at times I do not know any more.

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Sunday. I contemplate my books, piled up on the windowsill to constitute a small library: a rather useless one, for today no one will come to read them for me. Seneca, Zola, Chateaubriand, and Valery Larbaud are right there, three feet away, just out of reach. A very black fly settles on my nose. I waggle my head to unseat him. He digs in. Olympic wrestling is child's play compared to this. Sunday.

We are both locked-in cases, each in his own way: myself in my carcass, my father in his fourth-floor apartment.

When those who lived through the epidemic tried to describe it, they talked about the sudden eerie quiet.

Hell is wet and cold and black and lost. Her brain tap-dances and contracts,

Cities are the abyss of the human species.

There exists one book, which, to my taste, furnishes the happiest treatise of natural education. What then is this marvelous book? Is it Aristotle? Is it Pliny, is it Buffon? No—it is Robinson Crusoe.