Quotes About Isolation

This thing I'm doing can hardly be called living. Instead I'm lying dormant, like a bacterium in a glacier. Getting time over with. That's all.

I will say you ... You can mean more than one. You can mean thousands. I'm not in immediate danger, I'll say to you. I'll pretend you can hear me. But its no good, because I know you can't.

I'm not going to have a husband anyway, said Laura. I'm going to live by myself in the garage.

She rents herself a large, empty apartment on the top floor of a house. She has no long-term plans. At night she listens to the radio and cooks subsistence meals, and cries onto her plate.

I locate you on streets, in cities I've never seen, you walk against a background crowded with lifelike detail which crumbles and turns grey when I look too closely.

How long do you expect me to wait while you cauterize your senses, one after another turning yourself to an impervious glass tower?

Waiting is also a place: it is wherever you wait. For me it's this room. I am a blank, here, between parentheses. Between other people The knock comes at my door. Cora, with the tray.

will be less dignified, more painful, death will be sooner, (it is no longer possible to be both human and alive) : lying piled with the others, your face and body covered so thickly with scars only the eyes show through.

if it never happened to you, not ever, you would be like a mutant, a creature from outer space. Everyone knew that.

Love was its own transparent bubble-dome: you could see the two inside it, but you couldn't get in there yourself. That

After the wolvogs have gone he lies on his back on the platform, gazing up at the stars through the gently moving leaves. They seem close, the stars, but they're far away. Their light is millions, billions of years out of date. Messages with no sender.

Grace and Cordelia and Carol hang around the edges of my life, enticing, jeering, growing paler and paler every day, less and less substantial. I hardly hear them any more because I hardly listen.

But the truth is that I don't know what the villagers thought or talked about, I was so shut off from them. The older ones occasionally crossed themselves when we passed, possibly because my mother was wearing slacks, but even that was never explained.

But what if she discovers the truth? What he suspects is the truth. That he's patchwork, a tin man, his heart stuffed with sawdust. He thinks of her waiting for him, somewhere else, an island, subtropical, not muggy, her long hair waving in the sea breeze, a red hibiscus tucked behind one ear. If he's lucky she'll wait till that happens, till he can get there to be with her.

Every move I make is sodden with unreality. When no one is around, I bite my fingers. I need to feel physical pain, to attach myself to daily life.

listen. the leaves no longer rustle, the wind no longer sighs, our hearts no longer beat. They've fallen silent. Fallen, as if into the earth. Or is it we who have fallen? Perhaps it's not the world that is soundless but we who are dear. What membrane seals us off from the music we used to dance to? Why can't we hear?

I've cut myself off. I can feel the place where I used o be attached. It's raw, as when you grate your finger. It's a shredded mess of images. It hurts. But where exactly on me is this torn-off stem? Now here, now there. Meanwhile the other girl, the one with the memory, is coming nearer and nearer. She's catching up to me, trailing behind her, like red smoke, the rope we share.

I had no direction in life, and I felt numb inside, like an orphan.

Sorprende comprobar con que rapidez se pierde la entereza en ausencia de otras personas.

I don't want to be left by myself in this room. The walls are too empty, there are no pictures on them nor curtains on the little high-up window, nothing to look at and so you look at the wall, and after you do that for a time, there are pictures on it after all, and red flowers growing.

We live far away from our families and everything else that other people hold dear, and we follow a charismatic leader." "So now you're comparing Orlando to Jesus Christ?

Fifteen years in prison! That's eternity for an Arapaho.

The combination of power, optimism and abstract thinking makes powerful people more certain. The more cut-off they are from others, the more confident they are that they are right.

money appears to motivate only our interest in ourselves, making us selfish and self-centered...Money makes people feel self-sufficient, which also means they don't need or care about others; it's each man for himself