Quotes About Isolation

We had a lot of argumants like that. Because I often thought I couldn't take any more. And your father is really pacient but I'm not, I get cross, even though I don't mean too. And by the end we stopped talking to each other very much because we knew it would always end up in an argumant and it would go nowere, And I felt realy lonley.

It sounds like white noise everywhere, which is like silcence but not empty.

Christopher explains that he ranks the day according to the number and color of the cars he sees on his way to school. Three red cars in a row equal a Good Day, and five equal a Super Good Day. Four yellow cars in a row make it a Black Day. On Black Days Christopher refuses to speak to anyone and sits by himself at lunch.

Era la presa di coscienza nauseante di essere sbarcato sul pianeta sbagliato. O nella famiglia sbagliata. O nel corpo sbagliato. La presa di coscienza di non avere altra scelta che temporeggiare fino a quando non fosse stato in grado di andarsene e costruirsi un piccolo mondo tutto suo, dove si sarebbe sentito al sicuro.

When he finally let the car it was because e could no longer bear his own company in such a confined space.

What he felt mostly was a relentless, grinding dread which rumbled and thundered and made the world dark, like those spaceships in science-fiction films whose battle-scorched fuselages slid onto the screen and kept on sliding onto the screen because they were, in fact, several thousand times larger than you expected when all you could see was the nose cone. The

Prime numbers is what is left when you have taken all the patterns away.

A loro piace stare da soli e li incontro molto raramente, perché sono come gli okapi nella giungla del Congo, una specie di antilope, timidissima e rara. E posso andare ovunque nel mondo e so che nessuno mi rivolgerà la parola o mi toccherà o mi farà domande.

His name was Peter Lake, and he said to himself out loud, "You're in bad shape when a horse takes pity on you, you stupid bastard

A cat is an excuse for a lonely woman to talk to herself. That's what a cat is.

her parents had few friends, avoided social engagement, were awkward when they couldn't avoid it, and spent most of their time reading, playing music, doing punishing exercise, or, like crazy Zen monks, sitting for hours in the garden or on the terrace doing absolutely nothing.

Then came the matter of food. For ten hours he picked grains of rice off the floor and collected pasta, sugar, and individual tea leaves. He would not eat anything that had been tainted with blood, and was left with less than a third of his rations. Some things—powdered cocoa, for example—were uncollectible, or had risen on the wind. He had kerosene enough for one pot of boiling water and one hour of lamplight each day. Some of his blankets had bullet holes.

he quickly became like so many people in New York; that is, comfortable, forgotten, and alone. Though

We are all made up of yearning and light, searching for a way out, afraid we will be shut in or cut off or repelled back into the ground from which we are reaching. This is enough to begin: To know, before all the names and histories drape who we are, that we want to be held and left alone, again and again; held and left alone until the dance of it is how we survive and grow, like spring into winter into spring again. As

The worst loneliness is to not be comfortable with yourself.

Be good and you will be lonesome.

She bade solitude good-bye. Good-bye to no schedule but whim; good-bye to her life among no things but her own and each always in place; good-bye to no real meals, good-bye free thought. The whole fat flock of them flapped away. But what was solitude for if not to foster decency? Her solitude always held open house. when was the last time anyone needed her? She was eager to do it, whatever it was.

It should surprise no one that the life of the writer—such as it is—is colorless to the point of sensory deprivation. Many writers do little else but sit in rooms recalling the real world. This explains why so many books describe the author's childhood. A writer's childhood may well have been the occasion of his only firsthand experience.

Every woman stayed alone in her house in those days, like a coin in a safe. Amy and I lived alone with our mother most of the day. Amy was three years younger than I. Mother and Amy and I went our separate ways in peace.

It's not the cold that makes you sleep yourself to death in the Arctic, it's the smooth pallor of the landscape, and the desert has that same smooth pallor, though Arabic. It's the whiteness, the sameness of everything, that makes you fall asleep out of life, parched or frozen and so so comfortable when you finally let it roll over your mind, like a rolling-pin over dough.

No one knows it yet, but Cape Breton is a dress rehearsal for the Great Depression.

Freedom consists of being insulated from the envy and ignorance of the unimportant people who temporarily surround her.

It's more like... It keeps the world out so I can be in my own thoughts.

La falta de relaciones personales es la auténtica enfermedad de nuestro siglo: