Quotes About Isolation

Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry. --from Withsun, written 14 February 1961

But they know. They all know. And what am I against so many…?

S?rça fanusun içinde ölü bir bebek gibi t?kan?p kalm?? biri için dünyan?n kendisi kötü bir düÅŸtür. Bir gün bir yerde -okulda, Avrupa'da, herhangi bir yerde- o boÄŸucu çarp?tmalar?yla s?rça fanusun yeniden üzerime inmeyeceÄŸini nas?l bilebilirdim?

My hours are married to shadow.

Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.

I had removed my patent leather shoes after a while, for they foundered badly in the sand. It pleased me to think they would be perched there on the silver log, pointing out to sea, like a sort of soul-compass, after I was dead.

I felt myself shrink to a small black dot against all those red and white rugs and that pine paneling. I felt like a hole in the ground.

Feel like the recluse who comes out into the world with a life-saving gospel to find everybody has learned a new language in the meantime and can't understand a word he's saying.

Stasis in darkness. Then the substanceless blue

Girl, aging girl, is haunted by own nothingness...

I saw their mouths going up and down without a sound, as if they were sitting on the deck of a departing ship, stranding me in the middle of a huge silence.

A second wave collapsed over my feet, lipped with white froth, and the chill gripped my ankles with a mortal ache.

They might ignore me immediately. In my moon suit and funeral veil. I am no source of honey So why should they turn on me? Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.

We'll take up where we left off, Esther', she had said, with her sweet martyr's smile. 'We'll act as if all this were a bad dream.' A bad dream. To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream. A bad dream. I remembered everything.

Empty, I echo to the least footfall

It didn't seem to be summer any more. I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together, and the big white hotel towel I had dragged down with me lay under my head, numb as a snowdrift.

I went to the bronze boy whom I love, partly because no one really cares for him

It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.

I crawled between the mattress and the padded bedstead and let the mattress fall across me like a tombstone. It felt dark and safe under there, but the mattress was not heavy enough. It needed about a ton more weight to make me sleep.

Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.

I thought it would be easy, lying in the tub and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank to sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.

You inherit white heather, a bee's wing, Two suicides, the family wolves, Hours of blankness.

At about this point I began to feel peculiar. I looked round me at all the rows of rapt little heads with the same silver glow on them at the front and the same black shadow on them at the back, and they looked like nothing more or less than a lot of stupid moon-brains. I felt in terrible danger of puking. I didn't know whether it was the awful movie giving me a stomach-ache or all that caviar I had eaten.

I feel gawky and morbid as somebody in a sideshow.