Quotes About Loneliness

To love is to tire of being alone; it is therefore a cowardice, a betrayal of ourselves. (It is exceedingly important that we not love.)

One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way.

If you ever feel lonely and feel that no one loves you and cares for you - remember me.

I do think it's possible to go through life and never fall in love, or find someone who loves you.

When you're an introvert like me and you've been lonely for a while, and then you find someone who understands you, you become really attached to them. It's a real release.

Love plans for tomorrow and loneliness thinks of yesterday.

Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?

In this loveless everyday life eroticism is a substitute for love.

The poverty in the West is a different kind of poverty—it is not only a poverty of loneliness but also of spirituality. There's a hunger for love, as there is a hunger for God.

For to love, loveless, is a bitter pill:But to be loved, unloving, bitterer still.

Without someone to talk to, every sight I saw—whether it was the Trevi Fountain or a canal in Amsterdam—felt simply like a name on a list that I needed to check off.

Because there would be lonely days. And bad days. And days when I wondered what the hell I had just agreed to be part of. Because that was all part of the adventure too.

I thought he was the saddest person I had ever met, in those moments when I glimpsed him staring out the window.

In truth, her grief made me uncomfortable. It was too close to a place I had been, and not long ago. I was wary of her sadness, as if it were contagious, and found myself looking for excuses to stay away from her, trying to keep myself busy so that I didn't have to absorb it too... And then I thought about his later years when I'd treated him almost as a part of the furniture. I hadn't written to him. I hadn't called him. I had just assumed he would be here as long as I wanted him to be.

I'd like to hope you end up a miserable, lonely woman. But actually, I hope you have children one day, Ellie Haworth. Then you'll know how it feels to be vulnerable. And to have to fight, to be constantly vigilant, just to make sure your children get to grow up with a father.

Ellie's head sinks into her hands, and she weeps for the unknown Boot, for Jennifer, for chances missed and a life wasted. She cries for herself, because nobody will ever love her like he loved Jennifer, and because she suspects that she is spoiling what might have been a perfectly good, if ordinary, life. She cries because she is drunk and in her flat and there are few advantages to living on your own except being able to sob uninhibitedly at will.

In his hours alone, his mind wandered to a million possible outcomes, and he marveled at how long it had been since he had felt so preoccupied by a woman. It was because she was that rare thing, genuinely unobtainable. He should have given up days ago.

Who wouldn't say yes to a handsome, square-jawed man, who looked at her as if she were made of spun silk? Everyone else had spent the past months looking at her as if she were contaminated.

The dark was oppressive, unrelieved by any neighbouring buildings or sodium light. It felt primeval,

Without someone to talk to, every sight I saw - whether it was the Trevi Fountain or a canal in Amsterdam - felt simply like a box I'd needed to tick on a list.

No two months had ever left me feeling more inadequate. I was lonely almost all the time. I hated not knowing where I was going to sleep each night, was permanently anxious about train timetables and currency, found it difficult to make friends when I didn't trust anyone I met. And what could I say about myself, anyway? When people asked me, I could give them only the most cursory details. All the stuff that was important or interesting about me was what I couldn't share.

The plants have long since withered and died. I am apparently not very good at looking after things. Now I stand on the roof, staring out at London's winking darkness below. Around me a million people are living, breathing, eating, arguing. A million lives completely divorced from mine. It is a strange sort of peace.

Now I sat on a moulded plastic chair, my mind numb, my gaze fixed on a wall, unable to tell how long I had been there. I couldn't think. I couldn't feel. I just existed: me, the plastic chair, the squeaky linoleum under my bloodied tennis shoes.

So Lily's mouth would open and nothing would come out, then Louisa would start rattling on about meeting her grandmother or whether she had eaten something and she had realized she was on her own.