Quotes About Isolation

Show me a person in my shoes who is looking for a robot, and I'll show you someone who is looking for a person and can't find one.

Sometimes you don't have time for your friends except if they're online," is a common complaint.

Our capacity for solitude is undermined as soon as we introduce a screen.

The patient dies alone among strangers: well-meaning, empathetic, determinedly committed to sustaining his life - but strangers nonetheless.

unattended and isolated. For it is the promise of spiritual companionship near the end that gives us hope, much more than does the mere offsetting of the fear of being physically without anyone.

Although it is not always admitted, the hospital has offered families a place where they can hide the unseemly invalid whom neither the world nor they can endure. … The hospital has become the place of solitary death.

For many of the dying, intensive care, with its isolation among strangers, extinguishes their hope of not being abandoned in the last hours. If fact, they are abandoned, to the good intentions of highly skilled professional personnel who barely know them.

Sometimes I think we Americans are the loneliest people in the world. To be sure, we hunger for the power of affection, the self-acceptance that gives life. It is the oldest and strongest hunger in the world. But hungering is not enough.

Into the cities my people had gathered. They had become dizzy with words. Words had choked them. They could not breathe.

All of the men and women the writer had ever known had become grotesques.

Yaln?zd? ve yaln?zl???n karakterinin bir parças?, hiçbir zaman kurtulamayaca?? bir ÅŸey olduÄŸunu düÅŸünüyordu.

Wash Williams, the telegraph operator of Winesburg, was the ugliest thing in town. His girth was immense, his neck thin, his legs feeble. He was dirty. Everything about him was unclean. Even the whites of his eyes looked soiled. I go too fast. Not everything about Wash was unclean. He took care of his hands.

Being alone doesn't mean being where there are no people. It means being where people are all strangers to you.

Already there was a contest, always kept under the surface, between the father and son. It concerned ways of doing things, decisions to be made. As yet, the son always surrendered. It is like that in a family, little isolated groups formed within the larger group, jealousies, concealed hatreds, silent battles secretly going on…

A wind began to blow and he shivered. With all his strength he tried to hold and to understand the mood that had come upon him. In that high place in the darkness the two oddly sensitive human atoms held each other tightly and waited. In the mind of each was the same thought. "I have come to this lonely place and here is this other," was the substance of the thing felt.

I have come to this lonely place, and here is this other.

And so these people gathered and smoked cigarettes and talked and Enoch Robinson, the boy from the farm near Winesburg, was there. He stayed in a corner and for the most part said nothing.

All men lead their lives behind a wall of misunderstanding they have themselves built and most men die in silence and unnoticed behind the walls. Now and then a man, cut off from his fellows by the peculiarities of his nature, becomes absorbed in doing something that is personal, useful and beautiful. Word of his activities is carried over the walls.

As time passed and he grew to know people better, he began to think of himself as an extraordinary man, one set apart from his fellows. He wanted terribly to make his life a thing of great importance, and as he looked about at his fellow men and saw how like clods they lived it seemed to him that he could not bear to become also such a clod.

Many people must live and die alone, even in Winesburg.

They lived under supervision, a life without men. Dora knew no men. You could scarcely see how she might meet one, let alone come to know.

I spend plenty of time in London and it doesn't scare me, but it's a lonely place, even if you've got friends there. My job takes me all around the world, meeting lots of interesting people. But I think if I couldn't get home, if I couldn't get back to what I consider my real life I'd be frightened.

My name is Mary Katherine Blackwood. I am eighteen years old, and I live with my sister Constance. I have often thought that with any luck at all, I could have been born a werewolf, because the two middle fingers on both my hands are the same length, but I have had to be content with what I had. I dislike washing myself, and dogs, and noise. I like my sister Constance, and Richard Plantagenet, and Amanita phalloides, the death-cup mushroom. Everyone else in our family is dead.

I can't help it when people are frightened," says Merricat. "I always want to frighten them more.