Quotes About Isolation

Most men resemble great deserted palaces: the owner occupies only a few rooms and has closed off wings where he never ventures.

In my own country I am in a far off land I am strong but I have no force or power I win all yet remain a loser At break of day I say goodnight When I lie down I have a great fear Of falling.

People never like me and I never like people

People never like me and I never like people, she thought. And I never can talk as the Crawford children could. They were always talking and laughing and making noises.

People never like me and I never like people,' she thought. 'And I never can talk as the other children could. They were always talking and laughing and making noises.

I wish I was friends with things, he said at last, but I'm not. I never had anything to be friends with, and I can't bear people.

The mere fact that Lottie had come and gone away again made things seem a little worse-just as perhaps prisoners feel a little more desolate after visitors come and go, leaving them behind.

I'm lonely, she said. She had not known before that this was one of the things which made her feel sour and cross.

It's a lonely place. Sometimes it's the loneliest place in the world.

I dare say it is rather hard to be a rat, she mused. Nobody likes you. People jump and run away and scream out, 'Oh, a horrid rat!' I shouldn't like people to scream and jump and say, 'Oh, a horrid Sara!' the moment they saw me. And set traps for me, and pretend they were dinner.

It sounded like something in a book and it did not make Mary feel cheerful. A house with a hundred rooms, nearly all shut up and with their doors locked—a house on the edge of a moor—whatsoever a moor was—sounded dreary. A man with a crooked back who shut himself up also! She stared out of the window with her lips pinched together, and it seemed quite natural that the rain should have begun to pour down in gray

As she stood on the stone floor she looked a very small, odd little black figure, and she felt as small and lost and odd as she looked.

Dr. Warren was of the mental build of the man whose life would be interesting and full of outlook if it were spent on a desert island or in the Bastille.

When people had the cholera it seemed that they remembered nothing but themselves.

She would never tell him and he could stay in his room and never get any fresh air and die if he liked!

So when she was a sickly, fretful, ugly little baby she was kept out of the way, and when she became a sickly, fretful, toddling thing she was kept out of the way also.

It was a book about the French Revolution, and she was soon lost in a harrowing picture of the prisoners in the Bastille—men who had spent so many years in dungeons that when they were dragged out by those who rescued them, their long, gray hair and beards almost hid their faces, and they had forgotten that an outside world existed at all, and were like beings in a dream.

I've stolen a garden. It isn't mine, it isn't anybody's. Nobody wants it, nobody cares for it, nobody ever goes into it. Perhaps everything is dead in it already, I don't know. I don't care, I don't care. Nobody has any right to take it from me when I care about it and they don't. They're letting it die, all shut in by itsellf!

It really was a very strange feeling she had about Emily. It arose from her being so desolate. She did not like to own to herself that her only friend, her only companion, could feel and hear nothing. She wanted to believe, or to pretend to believe, that Emily understood and sympathized with her, that she heard her even though she did not speak in answer.

It was in that strange and sudden way that Mary found out that she had neither father nor mother left; that they had died and been carried away in the night

Everything as strange and silent, and she seemed to be hundreds of miles away from anyone, but somehow she did not feel lonely at all.

Sara put her hand up to her forehead, and her mouth trembled. She spoke as if she were in a dream. And I was at Miss Minchin's all the while, she half whispered. Just on the other side of the wall.

Shut in and morbid as his life had been, Colin had more imagination than she had and at least he had spent a good deal of time looking at wonderful books and pictures.

She had no one to talk to; and when she was sent out on errands and walked through the streets, a forlorn little figure carrying a basket or a parcel, trying to hold her hat on when the wind was blowing, and feeling the water soak through her shoes when it was raining, she felt as if the crowds hurrying past her made her loneliness greater.