Quotes About Isolation

The depressed man lives in a depressed world.

More and more, when faced with the world of men, the only reaction is one of individualism. Man alone is an end unto himself. Everything one tries to do for the common good ends in failure.

Robinson Crusoe, the self-sufficient man, could not have lived in New York city.

I tend to think of myself as a one-man wolf pack.

Maybe men are separated from each other only by the degree of their misery

God is absence. God is the solitude of man.

I don't know if there are men on the moon, but if there are they must be using the earth as their lunatic asylum

A man who has no office to go, to I don't care who he is, is a trial of which you can have no conception.

Being the boss anywhere is lonely. Being a female boss in a world of mostly men is especially so.

There is no one so lonely than a man who loves only himself.

The man who is content to live alone is either a beast or a god.

In the temple of his spirit, each man is alone.

The living stayed home, haunting the world of the dead like ghosts.

Put 'em on and be yourself, mister alienated loner steppenwolf bemused distant meta-izing technocrat rationalist fucking shithead.

In order to stay alive, you have to spend all day every day doing stupid meaningless work. And the only way to get out of it is to quit, cut loose, take a flyer, and go off into the wicked world, where you will be swallowed up and never heard from again.

Maybe that's what a leader is, Dinah. The one person who can't—who shouldn't—share her problems with anyone else.

This is a terrible country for old people. You put them away in horrible buildings that are completely shut off from life, and then do everything possible to keep them alive. It is a very stupid system.

In the center of that open space, a bony woman in a threadbare garment was hunched over a dead plant. Sword of Divine Fire's reaction was succinct: Fuck! The woman cringed as if he'd hit her with a bullwhip. Then: What has happened to our potato?

On a sub, you know, there's no place for things to drain to. The survivors claimed that the blood was knee-deep all through the submarine.

But when I tried to meet her eye now, she pointedly looked away, and fixed her red and swollen eyes on the big stained-glass window above the slate. Since (a) it was dark outside and (b) the window depicted Saunt Grod and his research assistants being beaten with rubber hoses in the dungeons of some Praxic Age spy bureau and (c) Tulia had already spent something like a quarter of her life in this room, I reckoned that inspecting the window wasn't really the point.

They have parallel-parked their bimbo boxes in identical computer-designed Burbclave street patterns and secreted themselves in symmetrical sheetrock shitholes with vinyl floors and ill-fitting woodwork and no sidewalks, vast house farms out in the loglo wilderness, a culture medium for a medium culture.

To put it mildly, the International Space Station, until now, had never been the kind of place for surprise visits.

The four-day elevator ride might be nothing more than a prelude to further journeys, some of which might take her to places with little to no bandwidth, and nothing was worse than getting stuck in a situation like that with nothing to read.

realizes that this is just like life must be for about 99 percent of the people in the world. You're in this place. There's other people all around you, but they don't understand you and you don't understand them, but people do a lot of pointless babbling anyway.