Quotes About Isolation

Hai ragione: non siamo più giovani, non ci interessa più dare l'assalto al mondo. Siamo dei profughi, fuggiamo da noi stessi. Avevamo diciott'anni, e cominciavamo ad amare il mondo e l'esistenza: ci hanno costretti a spararle contro. La prima granata ci ha colpiti al cuore. Siamo esclusi ormai dall'attività, dal lavoro, dal progresso, non ci crediamo più. Crediamo alla guerra.

Kat and I, two soldiers in shabby battledress, roasting a goose in the middle of the night. We don't talk much, but we have a greater and more gentle consideration for each other than I should think even lovers do. We are two human beings, two tiny sparks of life; outside there is just the night, and all around us, death.

Cik labi, ja cilv?kam ir cigaretes. Sm??is dažk?rt ir pat lab?ks nek? draugi. Cigaretes nemulsina. T?s ir m?mas un labas.

Šodien katrs dom? par sevi. P?r?k daudz pasaul? nelaimes.

When night falls people become as lonely as snowflakes floating down from a gray city sky. Now and again we fall past a streetlamp and are visible, a brief moment apart, REAL-- we can be seen. We exist. Then we vanish into the gray darkness and the earth draws us to it.

Bir çocuÄŸum ve bir istasyonda tek ba??may?m.

I wear a pony coat with skin like watered silk and muff of lamb. My fingers lie in depths of warmth. I have a jacket of silver sequins and heavy bracelets of rich corals. I wear about my neck a triple thread-like chain of lapis lazulis and pearls. On my face is softness and content like a veil of golden moonlight. And I have never in all my lives been so lonely.

The United States is remote, unconquerable, huge, without hostile neighbors or any neighbors at all of anything like her own strength, and lives exempt in an almost unvexed tranquility from the contentions and animosities and the ceaseless pressure and counter-pressure that distract the close-packed older world." While

So many men Ã¢â'¬Â¦ think absolute isolation a coming paradise.

Thomas Wolfe wrote, "Here was an entire nation … infested with the contagion of an ever-present fear. It was a kind of creeping paralysis which twisted and blighted all human relations.

There is no place suitable to my kind of mentality

It's a hindrance to be lonely and isolated in one's work. Ideas stimulate ideas, and the love of writing is contagious." Martha

He was a loner and intellectually intolerant.

Corbin wanted, quite simply, to die. He had wished for death many times over his long lifespan, but never as fervently as he did while Beth Adams rattled off breastfeeding statistics, her baby sucking industriously, mouth fully around the entire areola, as Sam was quick to point out, finger outlining the area in question. Corbin was speechless. -Corbin at Baby Boot Camp

that back of this wall was a vast yearning, a loneliness of soul which craved companionships the personality repelled.

He has no doubts, there is nothing you can say to sway him, to give him hope or trust. He is a miserable animal whose body decays, who will die, who will pass into dust and oblivion, disappear forever not only in this world but in all the possible dimensions of the universe, whose life serves no conceivable purpose, who may as well not have been born, and so on and so forth.

Modern man became psychological because he became isolated from protective collective ideologies. He had to justify himself from within himself.

William James said long ago, solitude is the greatest terror of childhood.

The ironic thing about the narrowing-down of neurosis is that the person seeks to avoid death, but he does it by killing off so much of himself and so large a spectrum of his action-world that he is actually isolating and diminishing himself and becomes as though dead.10 There is just no way for the living creature to avoid life and death, and it is probably poetic justice that if he tries too hard to do so he destroys himself.

No one should be alone in their old age, he thought.

My life used to be full of everything. Now if you aren't with me I haven't a thing in the world.

The people that I liked and had not met went to the big cafes because they were lost in them and no one noticed them and they could be alone in them and be together.

I had gone to no such place but to the smoke of cafes and nights when the room whirled and you needed to look at the wall to make it stop, nights in bed, drunk, when you knew that that was all there was, and the strange excitement of waking and not knowing who it was with you, and the world all unreal in the dark and so exciting that you must resume again unknowing and not caring in the night, sure that this was all and all and all and not caring.

Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer's loneliness but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day.