Quotes About Isolation

When you're small, if you reach out, and nobody takes your hand, you stop reaching out, and reach inside, instead.

Charlotte sipped her coffee and gazed at the rocky coastline, the deep green hills, clouds like smoke. How lonely it was to have no witness to her life. No one to guard her passage into slumber, no one to know that she had made it through the night.

Sometimes I have a terrible feeling that I am dying not from the virus, but from being untouchable.

It was dark inside that box. Not the blackness of night, but a complete absence of light.

Have you ever heard wolves howl in a place where wolves do not reside?

And though I am estranged from the sun, I am a brightness, lit from within.

Anger has that peculiar quality of isolation; like sorrow, it cuts one off, and for the time being, at least, all relationship comes to an end. Anger has the temporary strength and vitality of the isolated. There is a strange despair in anger; for isolation is despair.

It stayed like that: a rosy ring of jailed blood that came to the barred window and never left.

Friendless. Having no favors to bestow. Destitute of fortune. Addicted to utterance of truth and common sense.

Success is the one unpardonable sin against our fellows.

Being alone is scary, but not as scary as feeling alone in a relationship.

Sickness made itself at home in their close, dark rooms, disease thriving in the absence of windows and hope.

Tant que j'étais là-bas, je me sentais incapable de partir. Maintenant que je suis loin, je me sens totalement incapable de revenir. Je suis comme le rescapé d'un naufrage. J'avais du mal à sauter du navire qui prenait l'eau, mais maintenant que je n'y suis plus, il ne me viendrait pas à l'esprit de remonter à son bord.

Au bout de tant d'années passées parmi les vêtements-Blancs, il avait réussi à se bâtir une solitude, cette chère et irremplaçable solitude dont il s'enveloppait comme d'une cotte de mailles. La partager, c'était la perdre. Chaque fois qu'il en avait le loisir, il aimait à retrouver son discret repaire, seul, sans un autre compagnon que lui même. Pourquoi encombrer ses oreilles d'un bourdonnement humain?

So I've become an exile without ever leaving my country.

The glass dwellers were terrified of the cloche being lifted. They treated the suffering of others as something exceptional, something that required treatment, when what was exceptional was all this.

in the absence of political order, human life is "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.

I could never give it a name, my condition. I would have said, "I'm depressed," if that had felt sufficient. But I felt more than depressed. I felt that I was depression. A swallowed woman.

I once met an economist who believed that everything was fungible for money, so I suggested he enclose himself in a large bell-jar with as much money as he wanted and see how long he lasted.

And I surely cannot tell him that I'm no more good for me or for him than I ever was, that I will disappoint and confuse him, that I've been alone my whole life, and that it may really be too hard and too late, not even desirable, after such long, familiar cold, to be known, and heard, and seen.

These were my people: the abandoned, the unloved, the phenomenally unlucky.

the Old West, mysterious, serious, with great beauty at every vista and terrible things happening whenever any people appeared.)

Devon had been so lonely, so terribly lonely, for so long. The kind of lonely that sears, that burrows its way deep inside a heart and throbs. Like a gnawing hunger.

Her keeper jersey; she thinks of it now. The number 1 on its back. A lonely number. Only one goalkeeper on the field. Only one player who guards the net. Only one who stands strong and alone behind the other ten players on the field. No place to hide. No way to disappear.