Quotes About Isolation

Sometime after the accident, her parents stopped talking to each other unless they needed to discuss a household chore or a doctor's appointment. It's true, tragedy can bring you closer or drive you apart.

Shelby has absolutely nothing inside of her. She's a black hole. A sinkhole. A whole lot of nothing. She's told Ben that, but he doesn't want to believe her. Who would have imagined he'd turn out to be such an optimist?

She acted as though I were a stranger when I appeared. "Did you want something?" she would ask. Yes, I felt like saying. A mother.

That's all someone in the grip of obsession needs: the single possibility that desire might be real, a tiny shred of evidence to show you're not all alone in the dark.

I had made the decision to stick with life as I knew it, which meant I was alone. But at least I wasn't dumped or betrayed.

It's easy to keep to yourself if you hang back and always sit in the last row and slip around corners as if you were a ghost.

Michael looked through the rolled-up window, across the long and empty parking lot to the dark green pines that seemed to be raising their arms to the wind, shaking spindly fists. His

A human being born into a cold, indifferent world will regard his situation as the only possible one.

Unless the heir casts off his "inheritance" by becoming fully conscious of his true past, and thus of his true nature, loneliness in the parental home will necessarily be followed by an adulthood lived in emotional isolation.

The legacy of the parents is yet another generation condemned to hide from the true self while operating unconsciously under the influence of repressed memories. Unless the heir casts off his "inheritance" by becoming fully conscious of his true past, and thus of his true nature, loneliness in the parental home will necessarily be followed by an adulthood lived in emotional isolation.

As a child he was deprived of genuine communication. He suffered unspeakably from this deficiency, and all his works describe nothing other than miscommunication, be it The Castle, The Trial, or The Metamorphosis. In all these novels and stories the questions are never heard—they are answered with strange distortions, and the central figures are totally isolated, totally incapable of getting someone to listen.

I was amazed as people must be who are seized and kidnapped, and who realize that in the strange world of their captors they have a value absolutely unconnected with anything they know about themselves.

This is the way you look at the poorest details of the world resurfaced, after you've been driving for a long time -- you feel their singleness and precise location and the forlorn coincidence of you being there to see them.

Unconnected to the life of love, uncolored by love, the world resumes its own, its natural and callous importance. This is first a blow, then an odd consolation. And already I felt my old self - my old, devious, ironic, isolated self - beginning to breathe again and stretch and settle, though all around it my body clung cracked and bewildered, in the stupid pain of loss.

Lived in curious but not unhappy isolation…subscribing to magazines nobody around them read, listening to programs on the national radio network which nobody around them listened to…

What he carried with him, all he carried with him, was a lack, something like a lack of air, of proper behavior in his lungs, a difficulty that he supposed would go on forever.

Her silent singing wrapped around the story she was telling herself, which she extended further every night on the deck. (Averill often told herself stories-- the activity seemed to her as unavoidable as dreaming.) Her singing was a barrier set between the world in her head and the world outside, between her body and the onslaught of the stars.

I loved taking off. In my own house, I seemed to be often looking for a place to hide--sometimes from the children but more often from the jobs to be done and the phone ringing and the sociability of the neighborhood. I wanted to hide so that I could get busy at my real work, which was a sort of wooing of distant parts of myself. I lived in a state of siege, always losing just what I wanted to hold on to[...] It was being a watcher that did it. A watcher, not a keeper.

Greta moved on. She kept smiling. Nobody looked at her with any recognition or pleasure and why should they? People's eyes slid round her and then they went on with their conversations. They laughed. Everybody but Greta was equipped with friends, jokes, half-secrets, everybody appeared to have found somebody to welcome them.

hector him like this from now on, when I could get him alone.

She smiled at me with such merriment of recognition, and such a yearning to be recognised in return, that you would think this was a moment granted to her when she was let out of the shadows for one day in a thousand.

un campo que parecía sujeto por olas de hielo de borde azulado.

any store or restaurant or office that he went into. Nor was she married to any of the men he knew in the Elks or the Oddfellows or the Lions Club or the Legion. A

Mi spiegò che, essendo possibile soffrire solo guardando indietro al proprio passato, oppure avanti, al futuro, lei aveva risolto il problema isolando l'esperienza di ogni istante: ogni singolo istante, disse, era carico di un silenzio assoluto. Ci ho provato, sono disposta a provare di tutto, ma non ho capito come funziona.