Quotes About Isolation

In measured time forty-seven days had passed since the crash. Forty-two days, he thought, since he had died and been born as the new Brian.

The hatchet. The key to it all. Nothing without the hatchet. Just that would take all his thanks. And

could not play the game without hope; could not play the game without a dream. They had taken it all away from him now, they had turned away from him and there was nothing for him now. The plane gone, his family gone, all of it gone. They would not come. He was alone and there was nothing for him.

My name is Brian Robeson and I am thirteen years old and I am alone in the north woods of Canada. All

My name is Brian Robeson and I am thirteen years old and I am alone in the north woods of Canada.

In measured time forty-seven days had passed since the crash. Forty-two days, he thought, since he had died and been born as the new Brian. When the plane had come and gone it had put him down, gutted him and dropped him and left him with nothing.

Fifty-four days," Brian said. "Not quite two months. Yes—that's me.

But it was a mental thing. He had gotten depressed thinking about how they hadn't found him yet, and when he was busy and had something to do the depression seemed to leave.

My name is Brian Robeson,' he said. Then he saw that his stew was done, the peach whip almost done, and he waved to it with his hand. 'Would you like something to eat?

The hatchet. The key to it all. Nothing without the hatchet. Just that would take all his thanks.

I gave him a photocopy of who I was, without telling him that I was unhappy and humiliated and often, just like him, all alone.

I am not good with others.

he would get all intro on me, turn down the community access on his äppärät so that I wouldn't know where the fuck his mind was, and

When men see Han-shan They all say he's crazy And not much to look at - Dressed in rags and hides. They don't get what I say And I don't talk their language. All I can say to those I meet: Try and make it to Cold Mountain.

In the mountains it's cold. Always been cold, not just this year. Jagged scarps forever snowed in Woods in the dark ravines spitting mist. Grass is still sprouting at the end of June, Leaves begin to fall in early August. And here I am, high on mountains, Peering and peering, but I can't even see the sky.

Wolves in shells are crueler than stray ones.

Contemplating a flame perpetuates a primordial reverie. It separates us from the world and enlarges our world as dreamers. In itself the flame is a major presence, but being close to it makes us dream of far away, too far away. The flame is there, feeble and tiny, struggling to stay in existence, and the dreamer goes on to dream of elsewhere, losing his own being by dreaming on a grand, on a too grand scale by dreaming of the world.

Ev insanoÄŸlunun kendini ait hissettiÄŸi, hayat?n tüm ötekileÅŸtirmelerine raÄŸmen kiÅŸinin ümitlerinin, hayallerinin ve ac?lar?n?n bar?nd??? "dünya köÅŸesidir

the passionate being prepares his explosions and his exploits in this solitude.

Poor, unhappy Erik! Shall we pity him? Shall we curse him? He asked only to be 'someone,' like everybody else. But he was too ugly! And he had to hide his genius or use it to play tricks with, when, with an ordinary face, he would have been one of the most distinguished of mankind! He had a heart that could have held the empire of the world; and in the end had to content himself with a cellar. Surely we must pity the Opera ghost!

His horrible, unique, and repulsive ugliness put him beyond the pale of humanity, and it had often been apparent to me that for this reason he no longer felt he had any obligations to the human race.

No había nada más frío, nada mas muerto que su corazón.

Poor, unhappy Erik! Shall we pity him? Shall we curse him? He asked only to be some one, like everybody else. But he was too ugly! And he had to hide his genius OR USE IT TO PLAY TRICKS WITH, when, with an ordinary face, he would have been one of the most distinguished of mankind! He had a heart that could have held the empire of the world; and, in the end, he had to content himself with a cellar. Ah, yes, we must needs pity the Opera ghost. I

Love is just a four letter word! (laughter) Because that's what it is for me! I don't know what it means... I mean, love didn't work, whatever the hell that is, in my life. Alone I am. I'm not particularly into self-love either. I'm quite prepared to die. And all the objects of my love slowly trail off.