Quotes About Loneliness

He could not play the game without hope; could not play the game without a dream. They had taken it all away from him now, they had turned away from him and there was nothing for him now. The plane gone, his family gone, all of it gone. They would not come. He was alone and there was nothing for him.

Ugly, he thought. Very, very ugly. And he was, at that moment, almost overcome with self-pity. He was dirty and starving and bitten and hurt and lonely and ugly and afraid and so completely miserable that it was like being in a pit, a dark, deep pit with no way out. He sat back on the bank and fought crying. Then let it come and cried for perhaps three, four minutes. Long tears, self-pity tears, wasted tears.

could not play the game without hope; could not play the game without a dream. They had taken it all away from him now, they had turned away from him and there was nothing for him now. The plane gone, his family gone, all of it gone. They would not come. He was alone and there was nothing for him.

As far as the ego's plan is concerned, your seemingly multiple problems show up in this world in an attempt to get you to react — to feel bad, guilty, mad, defeated, bored, scared, inferior, self-conscious, annoyed, lonely, or superior and condescending. It's all some kind of a judgment, regardless of the form. As soon as you make that judgment, you give validity to the ego's world and reinforce the seeming reality of the separation and everything that goes with it.

I gave him a photocopy of who I was, without telling him that I was unhappy and humiliated and often, just like him, all alone.

He didn't love her. They were together for the obvious and timeless reason: It was slightly less painful than being alone.

For the first time in my life, I felt sorry for Jesus. Sorry that the miracles ascribed to him hadn't actually made a difference. Sorry that we were all alone in a universe where even our fathers would get us nailed to a tree if they were so inclined, or cut our throats if so commanded—see under Isaac, another unfortunate Jewish shmuck.

Poor, unhappy Erik! Shall we pity him? Shall we curse him? He asked only to be 'someone,' like everybody else. But he was too ugly! And he had to hide his genius or use it to play tricks with, when, with an ordinary face, he would have been one of the most distinguished of mankind! He had a heart that could have held the empire of the world; and in the end had to content himself with a cellar. Surely we must pity the Opera ghost!

He looked up in despair at the starry sky, he struck his burning chest with his fist; he loved and he was not loved!

His horrible, unique, and repulsive ugliness put him beyond the pale of humanity, and it had often been apparent to me that for this reason he no longer felt he had any obligations to the human race.

Possibly, I too shall take the train at that station one day, and go and seek around thy lakes, O Norway, O silent Scandinavia... Possibly, someday, I shall hear the lonely echoes of the North repeat the singing of her who knew the Angel of Music...

No había nada más frío, nada mas muerto que su corazón.

Often he would play his saddest tunes on the beach and pretend that the sea stopped its roaring to listen to them.

Poor, unhappy Erik! Shall we pity him? Shall we curse him? He asked only to be some one, like everybody else. But he was too ugly! And he had to hide his genius OR USE IT TO PLAY TRICKS WITH, when, with an ordinary face, he would have been one of the most distinguished of mankind! He had a heart that could have held the empire of the world; and, in the end, he had to content himself with a cellar. Ah, yes, we must needs pity the Opera ghost. I

She was closed up like a fist. It her very own memory, not theirs, her very own real and terrible and lonely and dark memory.

Oh, cruel abandonment! My bones turn to dust beneath the gaze of your ever-mocking smile!

I'm always lonely when I'm on my own—a leftover I think from the Demon, who always struck when I was alone—but towards the end of filming I realized that I was going to be lonelier when I returned to my home and family.

Nothing moved except the white bird, which flew back and forth with a slow, sad motion that seemed so weary that every time two wings rose I felt that it was about to fall into the sea, and the Short Sun, which crept down to the empty horizon as remorselessly as every man creeps toward his grave.

Who was, who could be, more broken, exiled, and despairing than Maytera Marble?

as a woman alone in a large house refrains from looking into mirrors, and instead busies herself with trivial errands, so that she may catch no glimpse of the thing whose feet she hears at times on the stairs.

You can deal with the loneliness one night at a time. But what you can't deal with is the idea of loneliness, the fear of it.

We are always whirling in the trance of deficiency in which we equate being alone with loneliness, restraint with deprivation, being silent with being empty. I get seduced by the promise of adding yet another ornament to the tree of myself and forget to pay attention to the heavenly invisibles.

absence (of love, comfort, knowing what to do) when we find ourselves in the desert of a particular moment, feeling, situation.

Then he just let it ring, the phone pressed to his head like a pistol, her picture in his hands.