Quotes About Loneliness

This marriage has failed to warm her.

She needs some proof that she isn't the last woman left on earth, the surviving queen of nothing.

center, in bigger print: And if I die no soul will pity me. And why should they since I myself find in myself no pity to myself. I asked what it was

She'll follow the river south through Lake Havasu City, where some rich person, she has heard, actually bought the London Bridge and shipped it over block by block to stand lonely in the desert.

tries, and tries very hard, but she doesn't know what it's like to be the sole survivor, the only one left of one's contemporaries. They've all gone now. They're all dead and buried. My dearest friends, my loved ones. Even my enemies are no longer around to get my goat and spark the will in me to fight.

She was sitting at a table in a cafe and he had just left. What she has understood, with absolute certainty, was that to live without him would be, forever, her fundamental occupation and that from that moment on things would always have a shadow for her, an extra shadow, even in the dark, and maybe especially in the dark. She wondered if that might work as an explanation of what it means to be mad about someone.

Fat droplets of rain started spattering against the city's concrete skin, against the glass windows of its eyes. A few people with umbrellas opened them. The rest ran for cover. I walked on, through it all. I tried to think of it as a baptism, a new beginning. Maybe it was. But what a lonely resurrection.

Well, the club is open until three in the morning and she works every day. So, by the time she gets home…" "I get the picture," I said. Though in fact, it was a little hard to imagine Harry with an attachment that didn't have an Ethernet cable and a mouse. He was an introverted, socially stunted guy, with no contacts I knew of outside of his day job, which he kept at arm's length in any event, and me. Conditions that had always made him useful.

I sighed. Two goodbyes in one night. It was depressing. And it wasn't as though I had a whole Rolodex full of friends. But no sense being sentimental about it. Sentiment is stupid.

He returned a moment later, alone, and, after taking a moment to catch his breath, resumed his rightful place on the bench without looking at anyone else in the room. Everyone returned to what they were doing: his affiliates, because they didn't care; the civilians, because they were unnerved. It was as though nothing had happened, though the pervading silence indicated that indeed something had.

Within days, perhaps hours, the discarded remnants of this last job would have been bleached of any trace of their origins, each just another nameless, colorless item among nameless, colorless souls, the flotsam and jetsam of loneliness and despair that fall from time to time into Tokyo's collective blind spot, and from there into oblivion.

it came to feel more a fortress than a home. A fortress of solitude.

The owner of a coffee shop sat diminished in the back of his deserted establishment, waiting for patronage that had long since vanished.

The room was large, and largely empty. The pace would pick up later in the evening. For now, the action comprised just a few lonely souls. They seemed lost in the expanse of the room, their play joyless, desultory, as though they'd been looking for a livelier party and found themselves stuck with this one instead.

She laughed. "Good. You still haven't told me what you were afraid of." I thought for a moment. Drowsiness was settling on me like a blanket. "Of getting involved. Like you said, I haven't been with someone for a long time.

you might find yourself passing a lone octogenarian, his shoulders bent with the weight of age, his slippers shuffling along the cobblestones, his passage as timeless and resolute as the ancient city itself.

Her support was a constant, one of the few good things I could take as a given. And whenever I see a first novel dedicated to a wife (or a husband), I smile and think, There's someone who knows." Writing is a lonely job. Having someone who believes in you makes a lot of difference. They don't have to make speeches. Just believing is usually enough.

Oh, what the fuck,' she told the empty house. 'Bring on the night.

Love me. My head is so bad tonight. Love me. Love me.

She pushed the button and like a miracle her head filled with the sound of Jerry Trupiano's voice… and more importantly, with the sounds of Fenway Park. She was sitting out here in the darkening, drippy woods, lost and alone, but she could hear thirty thousand people. It was a miracle.

In a real dark night of the soul, Scott Fitzgerald had said, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.

Dark, don't catch me here.

Never had he seen a man who looked so lonely, so far from the run of human life with its fellowship and warmth. To see him here, in this place of fiesta, only underlined the truth of him: he was the last. There was no other.

Bill thought, why are they crying so far apart?