Quotes About Loneliness

Just think how many thoughts a blanket smothers while one lies alone in bed, and how many unhappy dreams it keeps warm.

What am I doing here in this endless winter?

But sleep? On a night like this? What an idea! Just think of how many thoughts a blanket smothers while one lies alone in bed, and how many unhappy dreams it keeps warm.

2 November. This morning, for the first time in a long time, the joy again of imagining a knife twisted in my heart.

I can't feel a thing; All mournful petal storms are dancing inside the very private spring of my head.

It would be very unjust to say that you deserted me, but that I was deserted, and sometimes terribly so, is true.

Since I met you, I've felt abandoned without your nearness; your nearness is all I ever dream of, the only thing.

The fact that no one knows where I am is my only happiness. If only I could prolong this forever! It would be far more just than death. I am empty and futile in every corner of my being, even in my unhappiness.

There sat I, a faded being, under faded leaves.

I'm a cage, in search of a bird.

Lost among these entirely strange people.

Don't you want to join us? I was recently asked by an acquaintance when he ran across me alone after midnight in a coffeehouse that was already almost deserted. No, I don't, I said.

What am I doing in this eternal winter?

But when I want to draw close to someone, and fully commit myself, then my misery is assured. Then I am nothing, and what can I do with nothingness? I must admit that your letter this morning (by the afternoon it had changed) arrived at just the right moment; I was in need of those very words.

I'll shut myself off from everyone to the point of insensibility. Make an enemy of everyone, speak to no one.

There are times when I am convinced I am unfit for any human relationship.

A picture of my existence... would show a useless wooden stake covered in snow... stuck loosely at a slant in the ground in a ploughed field on the edge of a vast open plain on a dark winter night.

This afternoon the pain occasioned by my loneliness came upon me so piercingly and intensely that I became aware that the strength which I gain through this writing thus spends itself, a strength which I certainly have not intended for this purpose.

Thin, without fever, not cold, not warm, with empty eyes, without a shirt, the young man under the stuffed quilt heaves himself up, hangs around my throat and whispers in my ear, Doctor, let me die.

You once said that you would like to sit beside me while I write. Listen, in that case I could not write at all.

He looked sadly down at the street, as though it were his own bottomless sadness.

He] used to be so insignificant that one literally felt alone in his presence.

How lonely it is here, and how well it suits you.

Alone I continue living, yet when a visitor arrives it kills me.