Quotes About Loneliness

Have there been many recently who walk where I go now?" inquired the soldier. "No," said the captain of the guard. "There have not been many." And he stepped back into the shadows without saying any more.

During the worst of the Voodoo Wars anyone who lived alone with a cat was under suspicion of being a vampire.

most of us share the same fears: a fear of rejection, a fear of failure, a fear of not being good enough, a fear of being alone, a fear of losing control and a fear of success.

Philosophers call this state of isolation and disconnection "species loneliness"—a deep, unnamed sadness stemming from estrangement from the rest of Creation, from the loss of relationship. As our human dominance of the world has grown, we have become more isolated, more lonely when we can no longer call out to our neighbors. It's no wonder that naming was the first job the Creator gave Nanabozho.

They would fade away-and I would be left alone to face the people at school,and the reporters,and Adriane,and all the places where Max had taken my hand or breathed in my ear or told me he loved me,and the emptiness that used to be Chris.

Which is to say, I'd been lonely for so long, I'd forgotten that I was. That feeling of disconnection, of grief for something I'd never had, of screaming into a void and knowing no one would hear me---I'd forgotten that was anything other than the basic condition of life.

But if you're just a stranger to everybody on earth, then that's what you are and there's no end to it. You don't know the words to say.

Ezra, the girl you're chasing after doesn't exist. I'm not some bohemian adventurer who takes you on treasure hunts and sends you secret messages. I'm this sad, lonely mess who studies too much and pushes people away and hides in her haunted house.

I see people walking, he said.—Just during the day, like. I see them and they all seem to know where they're going. And I always think they're keeping the secret from me. Where they're going Ã¢â'¬â€œ where they know they're going. I've always felt that. Left out, I suppose. Excluded

The worst was when there was nothing in the sky, nothing to grab, blue blue blue.

A girl phoned me the other day and said, 'Come on over. There's nobody home.' I went over. Nobody was home.

I was a lonely adolescent, in a lonely country, where the rules were made for the sake of people who did not pay the cost of them. Our daylight world was one of slogans in which no one believed, of vague prohibitions and joyless celebrations of our benign enslavement. It was a world without friendship, in which every gathering was an object of suspicion, and in which people spoke in whispers for fear that even the most innocent remark could accuse the speaker of a crime.

I'm a lost soul. We do wail.

I wait for the blackness, the emptiness, to be drawn, appropriate curtain for the theatrics with which I am burdened this night.

Don't know why I should have to lie beside anyone I wouldn't want next to me now, and there aren't many." "You're getting morbid, Corwin. Or drunk. Or both. Bitter, too. You don't need that.

That was the first time in my life that I knew the meaning of despair. I read, I worked, I drank, I whored, but came the morning after and I was always me, by myself.

Soon the evening gloom would materialize, infect the fibre-filled air, drape itself over her bed, depress her from now till morning.

Everyone is "extremely nice"—and yet I feel entirely alone. ("Abandonitis").

yesterday) From the terrace of the Flore, I see a woman sitting on the windowsill of the bookstore La Hune; she is holding a glass in one hand, apparently bored; the whole room behind her is filled with men, their backs to me. A cocktail party. May cocktails. A sad, depressing sensation of a seasonal and social stereotype. What comes to my mind is that maman is no longer here and life, stupid life, continues.

To know that one does not write for the other, to know that these things I am going to write will never cause me to be loved by the one I love (the other), to know that writing compensates for nothing, sublimates nothing, that it is precisely there where you are not–this is the beginning of writing. — Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse: Fragments . (Hill and Wang; Second Printing edition June 1, 1979) Originally published 1977.

If only we could put our minds in plaster casts like our legs! But I cannot keep from thinking from speaking; no director is there to interrupt the interior movie I keep making of myself, someone to shout *Cut!* Volubility is a specifically human misery; I am language mad; no one listens to me, no one looks at me, but...I go on talking

Lo que hoy es tabú es la sentimentalidad, no la sexualidad. El sujeto enamorado se siente muy solo hoy frente a lo que "la sociedad" hizo del amor.

He hoarded his money, worked incessantly, and retained a lonely air.

He is very well and jolly by bits but sometimes I see he feels as lonely as I do