Quotes About Isolation

now this warm thought of greatness is a big chill in the wind—for

It starts raining harder, I've got a long way to go walking and pushing that sore leg right along in the gathering rain, no chance no intention whatever of hailing a cab, the whiskey and the Morphine have made me unruffled by the sickness of the poison in my heart.

As for his hobby, drawing, he was better at that than most artists alive today and I always knew he was really a great young artist pretending to be withdrawn so people would leave him alone, also so people wouldn't ask him to get a job.

And I saw how everybody dies and nobody's going to care. I felt how it is to live just so you can die like a bull trapped in a screaming human ring.

Not only was there no traffic but the rain came down in buckets and I had no shelter. I had to run under some pines to take cover; this did no good; I began crying and swearing and socking myself on the head for being such a damn fool.

Avoid the world, it's just a lot of dust and drag and means nothing in the end.

Everything'll be all right, desolation is desolation everywhere and desolation is all we got and desolation aint so bad

The other man, just as lonesome as I am In this empty universe

Vinny's was the scene of suicide hookies.

I suddenly realized that all these women were spending months of loneliness and womanliness together, chatting about the madness of the men.

I suddenly saw the little hobo standing under a sad street lamp with his thumb stuck out--poor forlorn man, poor lost sometime boy, now broken ghost of the penniless wilds.

Only one thing I'll say for the people watching television, the millions and millions of the One Eye: they're not hurting anyone while they're sitting in front of that Eye. But neither was Japhy….

In fact we're all strangers with strange eyes sitting in a midnight livingroom for nothing

Tienes que hacerlo! ¡Tienes que hacerlo o te morirás! ¡Venga, maldito idiota, habla con ella! ¿Qué coño te pasa? ¿Es que todavía no estás lo suficientemente cansado de andar por ahí solo?

We went to Old Bull Lee's house outside town near the river levee. It was on a road that ran across a swampy field. The house was a dilapidated old heap with sagging porches running around and weeping willows in the yard; the grass was a yard high, old fences leaned, old barns collapsed. There was no one in sight. We pulled right into the yard and saw washtubs on the back porch. I got out and went to the screen door.

I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was—I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds.

Well, now you know me. You know I don't have close relationships with anybody any more - I don't know what to do with these things. I hold things in my hand like pieces of crap and don't know where to put it down.

Sometimes during the night I'd look at my poor sleeping mother cruelly crucified there in the American night because of no-money, no-hope-of-money, no family, no nothing, just myself the stupid son of plans all of them compacted of eventual darkness.

Soon it got dusk, a grappy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgundy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries. LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities; New York gets god-awful cold in the winter but there's a feeling of wacky comradeship somewhere in some streets. LA is a jungle.

I sat back and enjoyed nightfall on the desert and waited for poorchild Angel Dean to wake up again.

Así es la noche, y eso produce. No puedo ofrecer más que mi propia confusión.

I never felt sadder in my life. LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities; New York gets god-awful cold in the winter but there's a feeling of wacky comradeship somewhere in some streets. LA is a

here I am way below in the Vulcan's Forge itself looking up with sad eyes—Blanking my little Camel cigarette on a billion year old rock that rises behind my head to a height unbelievable—The little kitchen light on the cliff is only on the end of it, behind it the shoulders of the great sea hound cliff go rising up and back and sweeping inland higher and higher till I gasp to think "Looks like a reclining dog, big friggin shoulders on that sonofabitch

riding freights, working as a scullion in the railroad cookshacks, stumbling, down-crashing in wino alley nights, expiring on coal piles, dropping his yellowed teeth one by one in the gutters of the West.