Quotes About Isolation

I sat on the bed. I looked at the Rorschach blot. I tried to make it look like a spreading tree, shadows pooled beneath it, but it didn't. It looked more like a dead cat I once found, the fat, glistening grubs writhing blindly, squirming over each other, frantically tunneling away from the light. But even that isn't the real horror. The horror is this: in the end, it is simply a picture of empty meaningless blackness.

I am but a stranger ... as we all are. Lonely inside our separate skins, we cannot know each others pain and must bear our own in solitude. For my part, I have found that walking soothes it; and that, given luck, sometimes we find one to walk besides us ... at least for a little way.

We are alone. Live our lives, lacking anything better to do. Devise reason later.

Blake understood. Treated it like a joke, but he understood. He saw the cracks in society, saw the little men in masks trying to hold it together...he saw the true face of the twentieth century and chose to become a reflection of it, a parody of it. No one else saw the joke. That's why he was lonely.

Please, don't go. It's lonely. There's a hole in my head as big as the world and it's so very lonely...

I thought as much. Miss Murray, though I am a beast, do not think that I am stupid. I know that I am hideous and hateful. I am not loved, nor ever hope to be. Nor am I fool enough to think that what I feel for you is love. But in this world, alone, I do not hate you. And alone in this world, you do not hate me.

That's how far the world is from where I am. Just one bad day.

You're my only remaining link to the world

The horror is this: In the end, it is simply a picture of empty meaningless blackness. We are alone. There is nothing else.

It was as if life was one great big impersonal piece of machinery.

And I'm thinking about the old man. He'll be pounding on the glass right about now... or maybe not now. Maybe in a while. But he'll be pounding and... will there be blood? I like to imagine so. Yes, I rather think there will be blood. Lots of blood. Blood in extraordinary quantities.

In this world, you shouldn't rely on help from anybody. In the end, a man stands alone.

None of you seem to understand. I'm not locked in here with you. You're locked in here with me!

The cold, suffocating dark goes on forever, and we are alone. Live our lives, lacking anything better to do. Devise reason later. Born from oblivion; bear children, hell-bound as ourselves, go into oblivion. There is nothing else.

I tried to imagine what it would feel like... to be sixteen years old and the most powerful creature on the face of the planet... and to be answerable to no-one. You could do anything, John. You'd never need to turn back to dull, weak, human Johnny Bates ever again... [y]ou could sever all your links with humanity. You could become remorseless, unstoppable... and totally corrupt.

I know every inch of this cell. This cell knows every inch of me. Except one.

Down in the valleys women scratch the soil that is left, and the maize hardly reaches the height if a man. They are valleys of old men and old women, of mothers and children. The men are away, the young men and the girls are away, the soil cannot keep them any more.

los celos, cansados de ser feroces, vuelven a la matriz de la que alguna vez los desterró el rencor: la matriz del desamparo.

There are times, I don't know if they come to everyone, when I feel that the future is beyond my strength: too much horror to deal with and no help to turn to.

I looked at this man. He was in his fifites, mostly bones inside hisblack suit, and gave off an odour, if you were as close up to him as I was, of a long-closed keyboard opened suddenly in an empty house. (73)

I looked at this man. He was in his fifties, mostly bones inside his black suit, and gave off an odour, if you were as close up to him as I was, of a long-closed keyboard opened suddenly in an empty house. (73)

There is the buried language and there is the individual vocabulary, and the process of poetry is one of excavation and of self-discovery. Tonally the individual voice is a dialect; it shapes its own accent, its own vocabulary and melody in defiance of an imperial concept of language, the language of Ozymandias, libraries and dictionaries, law courts and critics, and churches, universities, political dogma, the diction of institutions. Poetry is an island that breaks away from the main.

He was a nobody. One of those shy kids who turned into social invalids when that first blast of adolescence hit, meekly accepted their fate, and became invisible.

Isolation leads to psychopathology. Isolated from the rest of nature, isolated from each other by walls of fear, isolated from our own bodies, and isolated most of all from our own horrifying experience, is it any wonder that we are all crazy?