Quotes About Isolation

Marius y Cosette no se hablaban, no se saludaban, no se conocían: se veían y, como los astros en el cielo que están separados por millones de leguas, vivían de mirarse.

Jean Valjean, who was listening attentively, heard something like the sould of retreating footsteps. They are going away, he thought. I am alone. All at once he heard over his head a noise which appeared to him like a thunder-clap; it was a spadeful of earth falling on the coffin; a second spadeful fell, and one of the holes by which he breather was stopped; a third spadeful fell, and then a forth. There are somethings stronger than the the strongest man, and Jean Val Jean lost his senses.

the cold and bitter scorn of the passers-by penetrated her very flesh and soul like a north wind.

He had never known a kind woman friend in his native parts. He had not had the time to fall in love.

This cavern is below all, and the enemy of all; it is hatred, without exception.

Quoi que je fasse, elle est toujours là, cette pensée infernale, comme un spectre de plomb à mes côtés, seule et jalouse, chassant toute distraction, face à face avec moi misérable, et me secouant de ses deux mains de glace quand je veux détourner la tête ou fermer les yeux.

Tout homme peut avoir dans sa destinée une fin du monde pour lui seul. Cela s'appelle le désespoir. L'âme est pleine d'étoiles tombantes.

He always took his meals alone, with an open book before him, which he read. He had a well-selected little library. He loved books; books are cold but safe friends. In

The transept belfry and the two towers were to him three great cages, the birds in which, taught by him, would sing for him alone. Yet it was these same bells which had made him deaf; but mothers are often fondest of the child who has made them suffer most.

This took place in the depths of a forest, at night, in winter, far from all human sight; she was a child of eight: no one but God saw that sad thing at the moment. And her mother, no doubt, alas! For there are things that make the dead open their eyes in their graves.

Men had only touched him to bruise him. Every contact with them had been a blow. Never, since his infancy, since the days of his mother, of his sister, had he ever encountered a friendly word and a kindly glance. From suffering to suffering, he had gradually arrived at the conviction that life is a war; and that in this war he was the conquered. He had no other weapon than his hate. He resolved to whet it in the galleys and to bear it away with him when he departed.

He always took his meals alone, with an open book before him, which he read.

The solitary man is a modified savage, accepted by civilization. He who wanders most is most alone; hence his continual change of place. To remain anywhere long, suffocated him with the sense of being tamed. He spent his life in moving on.

I bear the dungeon within me; within me is winter, ice, despair; I have darkness in my soul.

Happiness and despair do not breathe the same air. A man in despair participates in the life of others from a great distance; he is almost unaware of their presence; he has lost any consciousness of his own existence; he is a thing of flesh and blood but feels that he is no longer real; he sees himself only as a dream.

La vie, le malheur, l'isolement, l'abandon, la pauvreté, sont des champs de bataille qui ont leurs héros ; héros obscurs plus grands parfois que les héros illustres.

From his very first steps among men, he had felt himself, later on he had seen himself, spewed out, blasted, rejected. Human words were, for him, always a raillery or a malediction. As he grew up, he had found nothing but hatred around him. He had caught the general malevolence. He had picked up the weapon with which he had been wounded.

To such an extent was this disease that for those who know that Quasimodo has existed, Notre-Dame is to-day deserted, inanimate, dead. One feels that something has disappeared from it. That immense body is empty; it is a skeleton; the spirit has quitted it, one sees its place and that is all. It is like a skull which still has holes for the eyes, but no longer sight.

Nadas que são enormes dentro do vazio.

Quelle minute funèbre que celle où la société s'éloigne et consomme l'irréparable abandon d'un être pensant !

They convert a poor camel-driver into a Mahomet; a peasant girl tending her goats into a Joan of Arc. Solitude generates a certain amount of sublime exaltation.

What mattered was not caring. And the best way not to care was to surround yourself with noise and people.

Inside was a library unlike any Leni had ever seen. Row upon row of wooden desks, decorated with green banker's lamps, were positioned beneath an arched ceiling. Gothic chandeliers hung above the desks. And the books! She'd never seen so many. They whispered to her of unexplored worlds and unmet friends and she realized that she wasn't alone in this new world. Her friends were here, spine out, waiting for her as they always had.

Fear was a mansion, one room after another, connected by endless hallways.