Quotes About Isolation

Alone by herself or alone in a crowd, it still came down to lonely. She

But there isn't healing, is there," she said. "I'm not going to get better. This isn't going away. There's no escape. I can't outrun it. I can never be normal.

Grief is natural, but when left alone it grows into something bigger. Something that steals hope. You shut down and no one gets in. The walls get bigger.

The odd feeling comes which you know may not be right but which still inhabits you: I belong below people.

Sometimes, Blister was thinking, the only person in the world she could really count on was herself, and that was not enough.

When you know all of those things exist for other people but not for you, sometimes it's very hard to endure the not having.

Mad people = People who stand alone and burn. I'm attracted to them because they give me permission to do the same.

I feel profoundly alone, cut off, unattractive…I feel unloveable. But I respect that unloveable solider—struggling to survive, struggling to be honest, just, honourable. I respect myself.

I suffer from a chronic nausea—after I'm with people. The awareness (after-awareness) of how programmed I am, how insincere, how frightened.

Somewhere, some place inside myself, I am detached. I have always been detached (in part). Always.

Everyone else not real-very distant, small figures. I would have to swim a thousand miles to reach the margin of the relationship, on the other side of which might lie other people, and it was too far, I was too tired. The almost infinitely extending network of that relationship; its dense weave That's what held me-

A now notorious first fall into alienation, habituating people to abstract the world into printed words

The writer is either a practicing recluse or a delinquent, guilt-ridden one – or both. Usually both. – Susan Sontag

I felt I was slumming, in my own life. My task was to ward off the drivel (I felt I was drowning in drivel)—the jovial claptrap of classmates and teachers, the maddening bromide I heard at home. And the weekly comedy shows festooned with canned laughter, the treacly Hit Parade, the hysterical narratings of baseball games and prize fights—radio, whose racket filled the living room on weekday evenings and much of Saturday and Sunday, was an endless torment.

Pavese's continual prayers for the strength to lead a life of rigorous seclusion and solitude ("The only heroic rule is to be alone, alone, alone") are entirely of a piece with his repeated complaints about his inability to feel.

The writer is either a practicing recluse or a delinquent, guilt-ridden one – or both. Usually both. –

For all the voyeuristic lure—and the possible satisfaction of knowing, This is not happening to me, I'm not ill, I'm not dying, I'm not trapped in a war—it seems normal for people to fend off thinking about the ordeals of others, even others with whom it would be easy to identify

It is intolerable to have one's own sufferings twinned with anybody else's.

Her chest ached like a dull wound when she realized that her silence did not cause him a moment's reflection or curiosity. When she looked out the corner of her eye at him, she could not tell what she meant to him... Another wish that never would come true, she saw then, even if she lived forever, was that he, that someone, would look at her not as an artistic study, but with love.

Non esiste un ingresso che immetta nella fortezza dell'anima.

The chilly blue of loneliness was a shadow on snow. The

She could scarcely move at all. Her muscles felt impossibly weak. Her limbs were gummy worms. She looked at her hands. Looked at her mother. "Is that what happened to my manicure? It's gone because I've been asleep for a year? A whole freaking year? That's impossible." It was the kind of thing people passed around on the Internet—Woman Sleeps for a Year, Wakes Up Angry About Manicure.

Having a Mac all to himself was pretty amazing.

When Darla told her parents she was pregnant, they made her leave. They were old-school. Said they couldn't handle the shame.