Quotes About Loneliness

Are there many little boys who think they are a Monster? But in my case I am right said Geryon to the Dog they were sitting on the bluffs The dog regarded him Joyfully

Those nights lying alone are not discontinuous with this cold hectic dawn. It is who I am.

There is a loneliness that fills the plain. Total. Lunar.

I lack myself.

in between the neighbour who recalls her coming in from a walk on the moors with her face "lit up by a divine light" and the sister who tells us Emily never made a friend in her life, is a space where the little raw soul slips through.

Whenever I visit my mother I feel I am turning into Emily Brontë, my lonely life around me like a moor, my ungainly body stumping over the mud flats with a look of transformation that dies when I come into the kitchen door. What meat is it, Emily, we need?

Unsociable even at home and unable to meet the eyes of strangers when she ventured out, Emily made her awkward way across days and years whose bareness appalls her biographers.

The fact that Anna is somewhere having coffee or a dream is an assault on me. I hate these moments of poverty, What does man eat? ask the phenomenologists. Likes the dogs, names, down there, starving.

El frío baja desmochado desde el hueso de luna del cielo.

You will see me, like a mountain animal, bitter little animal

I've worked very hard, you know," she confided to him, "and I've planted some kind of-I've been lucky enough, I guess, to plant a star-and then people wanted to either get in the act or else they wanted to rob me emotionally or financially, whatever. And then walk away and it's always lonely

You don't always keep on the top", she began again. "My life, my career has been like a roller coaster. I've either been an enormous success or just a down-and-out failure, which is silly because everybody always asks me, 'How does it feel to make a comeback?' And I don't know where I've been! I haven't been away." She paused, and Vangkilde waited. "It's lonely and cold on the top...lonely and cold," she said very quietly.

Val is a bachelor farmer in his seventies, so he should, by rights, be half mad.

Oh yes, thank you, Kitty,' she said and then sat and looked at her food. At one point she keeled forward and laid her cheek along her cigarette arm, which was stuck out straight across the tabletop. She was weeping. If such a thing can be said of someone who was making no sound and shedding no tears. Then she straightened up, pushed the palm of her hand up across her cheek and resumed her cigarette, ate through exhaled smoke, and poured herself some red wine.

There was something out of kilter with his mother's happiness, as though a light had been switched on by a passing stranger, and left to illuminate an empty room.

People aren't locked doors. You can get through to them if you want. But no one did. No one reached out a hand to Tulip. Nobody tried to touch her. I hear them whispering and they sicken me. 'Bus seats!' grumbles Mrs Bodell. 'Locker doors!' complain the teachers. 'Chicken sheds!' say the farmers. 'Greenhouses! Dustbins!' moan the neighbours. And Mum says, 'A lovely old hotel!' But what about Tulip? I shall feel sorry for Tulip all my life. And guilty, too. Guilty.

You can be lonely even when you are loved by many people, since you are still not anybody's one and only.

I am afraid of being infected," they tell him, "but I am even more afraid of being left alone.

And his eyes frighten me, too. They're the eyes of an old man, an old man who's seen so much in life that he no longer cares to go on living. They're not even desperate... just quiet and expectant, and very, very lonely, as if he were quite alone of his own free choice.

How I wish to fly with the geese away from dreary November days, the "freeze-up," and cruel winter. Away from loneliness, isolation, and anxiety bred by blizzards. Most every local person I've talked to grudgingly admits to an autumn apprehension. It is part and parcel of an Adirondacker's psychological makeup. The geese contaminate us with this strange depression on their southbound flight and cure us with their northbound. In between, we try to tolerate winter, each in his or her own way.

No one is fine on his own. People just say they are.

No one knocked on his door the next day. Nor the day after. Nor the one after that. But that didn't mean he was unaware of what was happening. Someone had carried a plate of those fucking biscuits past his room, and even the oak door had provided no barrier for the smell. Not for anything of hers.

Don't leave me alone! A cry in the night, Of anguish heart-stiking, Of soul-killing fright. Live for my living Or else I must die Don't leave me alone. A world heard that cry.

Each of us has within him a dark chamber where the real desire flowers; and the horror of it is that they never see the light of another's understanding, those strange blooms. It is as lonely as it is dark, that chambers of the heart.