Quotes About Isolation

Porque no habrá en la noche un camino abierto por el cual se pueda correr una eternidad alejándose de la tierra.

They could read him, they could study him, they could pick him apart, but they couldn't laugh or be sad with him....

Life left us all where we were meant to be or where it was convenient to leave us and then forgot us, which is as it should be.

This is my last communique from the planet of the monsters. Never again will I immerse myself in literature's bottomless cesspools. I will go back to writing my poems, such as they are, find a job to keep body and soul together, and make no attempt to be published.

He dreamed that he and Elvira Campos lived together in a cabin in the mountains. The cabin didn't have electricity or running water or anything to remind them of civilization. The slept on bearskin, with a wolf skin over them. And sometimes Elvira Campos laughed, a ringing laugh, as she went running into the woods and he lost sight of her.

Loneliness is an aspect of natural human egotism.

Is that the true, the supreme terror, to discover that I am the wizened youth whose cries no one can hear?

He] turned his back on the window, not knowing why he had gone to it, not knowing what he hoped to see, and just at that moment, when there was no one at the window any more and only a little lamp of colored glass at the back of the room flickering, it appeared.

He also discovered that he was bitter and full of resentment, that he oozed resentment, and that he might easily kill someone, anyone, if it would provide a respite from the loneliness and rain and cold of Madrid, but this was a discovery that he preferred to conceal.

Silence glimmers in the empty hallways, on the radios no one listens to anymore.

I remember that a couple, both tall and thin, turned away from a painting and peered over as if I might be an ex-lover or a living (and unfinished) painting that had just got news of the painter's death. I know I walked out without looking back and that I walked for a long time until I realized I wasn't crying, but that it was raining and I was soaked. That night I didn't sleep at all.

The night was dark as pitch or coal. Stupid expressions, thought Pereda. European nights might be pitch-dark or coal-black, but not American nights, which are dark like a void, where there's nothing to hold on to, no shelter from the elements, just empty, storm-whipped space, above and below.

I started to think about the abyss that separates the poet from the reader and the next thing I knew I was deeply depressed.

On the ride back to the hotel, they lost the sense of being in a hostile environment, although hostile wasn't the word, an environment whose language they refused to recognize, an environment that existed on some parallel plane where they couldn't make their presence felt, imprint themselves, unless they raised their voices, unless they argued, something they had no intention of doing.

Sometimes I get the sense that it's all "internal"... Maybe that's why I lived alone and did nothing for three years ... (The man hardly ever washed, he didn't need a typewriter, all he had to do was sit in that shabby armchair for things to flee of their own accord)

Above the street, like a hanged man, swings the spot-lit sign of the neighborhood's best restaurant, closed a long time ago.

Una semana sin ver a Maciste se me antojaba una eternidad. Pero cuando intentaba imaginar una vida completa junto a él no veía nada: una imagen en blanco, la pared de un cuarto deshabitado, amnesia, lobotomía, mi cuerpo partido, hecho pedazos.

The sickness is to sit at the base of the lighthouse staring into nothing. The lighthouse is black, the sea is black, the writer's jacket is also black.

That sense of time, ah, the diseased man's sense of time, what treasure hidden in a desert cave.

they lost the sense of being in a hostile environment, although hostile wasn't the word, an environment whose language they refused to recognize, an environment that existed on some parallel plane where they couldn't make their presence felt

I kept thinking about my father's stony plot of land and much later, when I'd lost touch with him, each time I went back to that barren place I thought about the buried pyramids, about the one time I'd seen him riding over the tops of the pyramids, and I imagined him in the hut, when he was left alone and sat there smoking.

Escribí este libro para mí mismo, y ni de eso estoy muy seguro. Durante mucho tiempo sólo fueron páginas sueltas que releía y tal vez corregía convencido de que no tenía tiempo. ¿Pero tiempo para qué? Era incapaz de explicarlo con precisión. Escribí este libro para los fantasmas, que son los únicos que tienen tiempo porque están fuera del tiempo.

Madness really is contagious, and friends are a blessing, especially when you're on your own.

Amalfitano began to weep. His little house, his parched yard, the television set and the video player, the magnificent northern Mexico sunset, struck him as enigmas that carried their own solutions with them, inscribed in chalk on the forehead. It's all so simple and so terrible, he thought. Then he got up from his faded yellow sofa and closed the curtains.