Quotes About Isolation

I hereby excommunicate you from the Milky Way!

I don't have any friends in English Departments.

There's one Baldessari work I genuinely love and would like to own, maybe because of my Midwestern roots and love of driving alone. 'The backs of all the trucks passed while driving from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara, California, Sunday, 20 January 1963' consists of a grid of 32 small color photographs depicting just what the title says.

You occupied my space. But because you were not in my present, when I looked into my future I saw . . . nothing. Isn't that sad? And stupid?

More and more, I'd been having this feelings of zeroness. Of HERE-I-AM-AND-IT-JUST-DOESN'T-MATTER.

Being a junkie, when you broke it down, was nothing more than a crazed day job.

When life becomes sub-human, sub-humans come alive.

It mattered little if one was mute; people did not understand one another anyway. They collided with or charmed one another, hugged or trampled one another, but everyone knew only himself. His emotions, memory, and senses divided him from others as effectively as thick reeds screen the mainstream from the muddy bank. Like the mountain peaks around us, we looked at one another, separated by valleys, too high to stay unnoticed, too low to touch the heavens.

As a child I used to lie on the floor with my eyes tightly closed and hope that people would walk past without noticing me. That would mean I was truly invisible.

At times, feeling the wind on my brow, I went numb with horror. In my imagination I saw armies of ants and cockroaches calling to one another and scurrying toward my head, to some place under the top of my skull, where they would build new nests. There they would proliferate and eat out my thoughts, one after another, until I would become as empty as the shell of a pumpkin from which all the fruit has been scraped out.

Gatherings and, simultaneously, loneliness are the conditions of a writer's life

He's like a flower doing its best on an asteroid, naked to so many cosmic terrors.

me lleva a internarme por un cultivo de maíz cercado por eucaliptos errantes.

Caminaba por un sendero solitario en una noche sin estrellas

mira con curiosidad la soledad del cuarto, la soledad de su propia alma;

No soy nada…, no soy nada…» se repite una y otra vez, mientras, la oscuridad es absorbida por su piel

imposible negar los sentimientos de miedo, arrepentimiento, angustia, soledad, clandestinidad que siempre nos acompañaron.

He watched a lot of TV. I guess many people did. Maybe like him, they preferred their lives delivered to them in a box.

Sleeplessness is a desert without vegetation or inhabitants.

Writing is a solitary occupation. Family, friends, and society are the natural enemies of the writer. He must be alone, uninterrupted, and slightly savage if he is to sustain and complete an undertaking.

The trouble is, as you get older, the people you like die and are not replaced with others, so that it is easily possible to end up with no one at all to talk to, or at least, no one you would want to hear responding to whatever it is you might have ended up saying.

A hermit always longs for visitors, said Loring,until they come, and then he wishes them gone.

the Amazon encampments began to seem more and more like microcosms of a national catastrophe.

How does a hardworking sixty-four-year-old-woman end up without a house or a permanent place to stay, relying on unpredictable low-wage work to survive? Living in a mile-high alpine wilderness, with intermittent snow and maybe mountain lions in a tiny trailer, scrubbing toilets at the mercy of employers who, on a whim, could cut her hours or even fire her? What does the future look like for someone like that?