Quotes About Isolation

Don't make fun of me!" Ender said. "I'm afraid I'm going crazy.

Behind closed doors, we're all the fat uncool kid.

I've been called a recluse. There's definitely truth in that. I like to spend time alone.

We must realize that the world cannot see and hear the truth neither are they therein sanctified, the world is on its own.

Lying is easy. But it's lonely.""What do you mean?""When you lie to everyone about everything, what's left? What's true?""Nothing, " I say."Exactly.

What's even more messed up than funerals, is the way people treat you after the funeral. Like you're diseased or something.

This is the darkness: I have known great storms Scourge the long day - but this is motionless And sterile: this is something featureless The blind brain turning upon drugs and worms. This is the Darkness

Life it seems will fade away/ Drifting further every day/ Getting lost within myself/ Nothing matters, no one else/

Emptiness is filling me To the point of agony/ Growing darkness taking dawn/ I was me but now he's gone/

Then it all crashes down And you break your crown And you point your finger But there's no one around

Johnson was fascinated by these bands—"They are so isolated, they can't help but develop their own sound

He says his parents were "really uptight and not very affectionate," and, consequently, young J grew up somewhat aloof and self-absorbed. All the furniture in his room was arranged to create a wall around his bed, and there he'd lie for hours, listening to music.

In a controversial talk with Jeff the previous March—conspicuously made when Netanyahu was in flight to Washington—the president again warned Israel of its growing isolation in the world and vulnerability to boycotts. "I took it to be a little bit of a veiled threat," Goldberg later told Charlie Rose, interpreting Obama's remark as "nice little Jewish state you got there, I'd hate to see something happen to it.

The midnight disease is a kind of emotional insomnia; at ever conscious moment its victim—even if he or she writes at dawn, or in the middle of the afternoon—feels like a person lying in a sweltering bedroom, with the window thrown open, looking up at a sky filled with stars and airplanes, listening to the narrative of a rattling blind, an ambulance, a fly trapped in a Coke bottle, while all around him the neighbours soundly sleep.

I was still carrying the tuba, for no reason other than that, in my current circumstances, it passed for good company. That's another way of saying it was all I had.

She was a large, boneless woman who draped herself like an old blanket over the chairs of the apartment, staring for hours with her gray eyes at ghosts, figments, recollections, and dust caught in oblique sunbeams, her arms streaked and pocked like relief maps of vast planets, her massive calves stuffed like forcemeat into lung-colored support hose. She was quixotically vain about her appearance and spent an hour each morning making up her face.

An invisible gas clouds his thoughts, exhaust from a bus left with its engine running in the middle of his brain.

Other than along certain emotional tangents there was little in the book that felt as if it had actually been lived. It was a fiction produced by someone who knew only fictions, The Tempest as written by isolate Miranda, raised on the romances in her father's library.

I didn't want to be left alone with Timothy, not because I was afraid of him but because I was afraid that somebody would come into the office and see us sitting there, two matching rejects in matching orange chairs.

He had not spoken to a desirable woman who was not at some level his enemy or a whore since 1944.

Huh-uh," Archy said, not trying to charm or work her anymore, the deep 1978 El Cerrito–apartment sullenness starting to seep out of him as he remembered how Luther and Valletta used to leave him there all night by himself, nothing on the television but Wolfman Jack and some movie where a shark-toothed devil doll was biting Karen Black on the ankles.

Wie viele einsame Kinder war sein Problem nicht die Einsamkeit an sich, sondern dass er nie allein gelassen wurde, um sie zu geniessen.

Most of all, he was tired of being a holdout, a sole survivor, the last coconut hanging on the last palm tree on the last little atoll in the path of the great wave of late-modern capitalism, waiting to be hammered flat.

He told himself he would move faster and smarter alone, but the truth was that he was grieving for Aughenbaugh, and like a lot of grieving people who keep a habitual distance from their emotions, he thought that being alone was what he needed.