Quotes About Loneliness

In spite of the conventional bottle of wine held on her lap, she was highly strung, happy to take risks and chances. She lived alone and talked books not babies; she was not, in short, Lucy's kind of woman

Strike had felt a variety of emotions which included guilt, gratitude, confusion, fear, rage, resentment and loneliness, but he couldn't remember feeling lucky. "Lucky" would have been the bomb not detonating. "Lucky" would have meant still having both his legs. "Lucky" was what people who couldn't bear to contemplate horrors needed to hear maimed and terrorized survivors call themselves.

She was moving in circles where she felt alone.

She was tired and miserable and she was saying someone else wanted me, once .

D'you mind if we get going?' said Strike, checking his watch. 'I told Elin I'll be over tonight.' 'No problem,' said Robin. Yet for some reason—perhaps due to her headache, perhaps because of the lonely woman sitting in Summerfield among the memories of loved ones who had left her—Robin could easily have wept all over again.

they said, you won't be alone, you have something you've built, and all right, it might not be a family, but there are still people who care about you waiting in London

If love drove people mad, what would lack of love do?

I know that I am not the only person who is alone in the world. I know that others sorrow in the night. That others pick up a razor and slice into their own skin, with greater or lesser success. I know that others look at their lives and see only silent failure and disconsolation, feeding the cat, checking their email, doing the crossword. I know that I am not the only person to have lived a life like mine. I am aware. (212)

Standing in the center of the crowd, his solitude was enormous. He felt that in all the vast and frozen space in which he lived his life - every hand needy, every heart wanting something from him - everybody had a reason to be and a place to land. Everybody but him. For him there was nothing. In all the cold and bitter world, there was not a single place for him to sit down.

Sometimes she sat and let her mind go blank and her eyes go out of focus, so that she watched the slow, jerky movements of the motes that floated across her pupils. They amazed her as a child. Now she saw them as a reflection of how she moved, floating listlessly through the world, occasionally bumping into another body without acknowledgment, and then floating on, free and alone.

When it is bad… I go into the night and the night eats me

In one sense, (Duchamp's) "The Large Glass" is a glimpse into Hell; a peculiarly modernist Hell of repetition and loneliness.

Como duas aves solitárias sobrevoando as imensas pradarias por vontade divina, todos estes anos e vidas avançámos ao encontro um do outro.

Flabby, bald, lobotomized,he drifted in a sheepish calm,where no agonizing reappraisaljarred his concentration on the electric chair—hanging like an oasis in his airof lost connections.

The twinkling steel above me is a star; I am a fallen Christmas tree. Our car Races through seven red-lights—then the road Is unpatrolled and empty, and a load Of ply-wood with a tail-light makes us slow. I turn and whisper in her ear. You know I want to leave my mother and my wife, You wouldn't have me tied to them for life Ã¢â'¬Â¦ Time runs, the windshield runs with stars.

After my marriage, I found myself in constant companionship with this almost stranger I found neither agreeable, interesting, nor admirable

Even in the presence of others he was completely alone.

I know," she said. "And isn't that strange? We've come to a place where the sun never sets, but it offers so little in the way of warmth." Michael

The sight of it made her want to weep. She was alone in the boat—alone in the world—and the tiller was already lurching wildly from one side to the other, screeching louder than the gulls swooping in and out of the fog. The hollow place in her heart, the place where she had already stored so many deaths, would now have to find room for Sergei's, too.

The difference is this: You're lonely when you have something to share but no one to share it with. You're lost when you have nothing to share, no matter with whom you live. Of course, you can be both lonely and lost, but of the two, lost inflicts the greater pain.

I am dying of the incomprehension of those who could have seen me and held me, dying of the emptiness of cautious and clever people, and of the lovelessness of hesitancy and not-much-liking.

To be alone: icy, iron terror, foretaste of the grave, forerunner of unpitying death. Oh, whoever has been himself alone can never find another's loneliness strange.

But I was a lonely creature, and although I would have been very happy to have a friend I just never happened to meet one.

I long for another human face just as I fear it.