Quotes About Isolation

It was as if when I looked into his eyes I was standing alone on the edge of the world...on a windswept ocean beach. There was nothing but the soft roar of the waves.

Like all strong people, she suffered always a measure of loneliness; she was a marginal outsider, a secret infidel of a certain sort.

Silence in the shell of a city, no baby crying, no car honking, no ambulance shrieking, no lovers moaning, no drunks throwing up in the alley, no lights, nothing but wind and rain and snow in its season and rust and a rattling of open doors and carcass smell. It was a possibility like a brain tumor or a scorpion bite.

Some tragedy is always implied when human beings can in no way communicate; what happened at King's is only a special example of it.

Once you go blind, unfortunately, words are all you've got.

Leaving the page of the book carelessly open,something unsaid, the phone off the hookand the love, whatever it was, an infection.

If you have endured a great despair, then, you did it alone.

The Witch's Life" When I was a child there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch. All day she peered from her second story window from behind the wrinkled curtains and sometimes she would open the window and yell: Get out of my life! She had hair like kelp and a voice like a boulder. I think of her sometimes now and wonder if I am becoming her.

Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?

The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.

God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.

The town does not exist except where one black-haired tree slips up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.

The trouble is that I am crazy and the room, ah, my own room drinks me.

And I say to myself that the trouble with life is that people are strangers.

Alone in our place I was a guest.

I don't know if I can go on spilling myself out to people—those strange strangers.

I have a room of my own. Rain drops onto it. Rain drops down like worms From the trees onto my frontal bone. Haunted, always haunted by rain, the room affirms The words that I will make alone. — Mother And Jack and The Rain.

I need someone, aside from pain, to rock me out, away, alone.

I am not seeing anyone or writing anyone—I'm on my 8th draft of this play and how many more—God knows.

I'm like a jew who ends up in the wrong country. I'm not a part. I'm not a member. I'm frozen.

I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.

Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.

It's true that writing is a solitary occupation, but you would be surprised at how much companionship a group of imaginary characters can offer once you get to know them.

But it was easier, somehow, to reflect on them all from a distance than to be struggling for room in their midst.