Quotes About Loneliness

The coyote howled once more. Bosch thought he could hear a dog answering somewhere in the distance. "Are you like him?" she asked. "Who?" "Timido. Alone out there in the dark world." "Sometimes. Everybody is sometimes." "Yes

Do you know a six-letter word for a man of constant sorrow and loneliness?" she asked after sliding the window open and then checking her nail for damage. "Bosch.

She had been living like a hermit herself, in a cramped, seedy apartment in Somerville, spending long hours in the lab. All-nighters had become a regular thing. She didn't have any close friends, didn't go out on dates, didn't even go to the movies by herself. She had sacrificed a normal life in order to get a PhD, and become a scientist.

Sitting in the deserted law offices, Sanders had the feeling that he was all alone in the world, with nobody but Fernandez and the encoraching darkness. Things were happening quickly; this person he had never met before today was fast becoming a kind of lifeline for him.

Insomniacs know better than anyone how it would be to haunt a house.

We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live alone in Canada; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep--it's as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we're very fortunate, by time itself.

Oh, Mrs. Dalloway. Always giving parties to cover the silence.

The book worm, the foreign-looking one with the dark, close set eyes an the Roman nose, who had never been sought after or cherished; who had always been left alone, to read.

Outside the house is a world where the shelves are stocked, where radio waves are full of music, where young men walk the streets again, men who have deprievation and a fear worse than death, who have willingly given up their early twenties and now, thinking of thirty and beyond, haven't any time to spare.

It's the solitude that slays you. Maybe because you'd expected ruin to arrive in a grander and more romantic form.

It's your life, quite possibly your only one. Still you find yourself having a vodka at three a.m., waiting for your pill to kick in, with time ticking through you and your own ghost already wandering among your rooms.

Who knows what succession of girls and boys sneak in through the sliding glass doors at night, after the mother has sunk to the bottom of her own private lake, with the help of Absolut and Klonopin?

There is so little love in the world.

She wants to be loved. She wants to be a competent mother reading calmly to her child; she wants to be a wife who sets a perfect table. She does not want, not at all, to be the strange woman, the pathetic creature, full of quirks and rages, solitary, sulking, tolerated but not loved.

Who wouldn't want to fuck these people up? Which of us does not understand, in our own less presentable depths, the demons and wizards compelled to persecute human mutations clearly meant, by deities thinking only of their own entertainment, to make almost everyone feel even lonelier and homelier, more awkward, more doubtful and blamed, than we actually are?

Not all people were meant to be lovers.

He felt very lonely, yet there was a kind of pride in his loneliness.

Es gibt viele Arten von Einsamkeit, aber Momo erlebte eine, die wohl nur wenige Menschen kennengelernt haben, und die wenigsten mit solcher Gewalt.

Cô Ä'Æ¡n chính là má»™t l?i nguy?n Ä'è lên mày ngá»™p th?, má»™t bi?n c? khi?n mày ch?t Ä'u?i, má»™t sá»± d?n v?t khi?n mày khô héo. Mày Ä'ã b? lo?i ra kh?i m?i ng??i.

There are many kinds of loneliness, but Momo experienced one that only very few people know of, and that even fewer have experienced to the extent that Momo did. She felt like she was imprisoned in a treasure trove filled with priceless riches that continued to grow in number, threatening to suffocate her.

Ama bu adam?, ÅŸimdiye kadar dinlediÄŸi insanlar? anlad??? gibi anlamas? olanaks?zd?. Öteki insanlar?n sanki ruhlar?na s?zar, onlar? anlard?. Ancak bu misafirle bu iÅŸ olmuyordu. Her denemeye kalk??t???nda, bir karanl??a, bir boÅŸluÄŸa dal?yor gibi oluyordu. Sanki kar??s?nda hiç kimse yokmuÅŸ gibiydi. Böyle bir ÅŸey ba??na hiç gelmemiÅŸti.

Ba?kalar?yla payla??lmayan zenginlikler insan? mahvediyordu.

In the end, it was only a few months that passed this way, and yet it was the longest period of time that Momo had ever lived through. Time can't simply be measured with a clock and a calendar, just as words alone can't describe the kind of loneliness Momo knew in these months.

He felt lonely. His solitude was thrown into relief by being observed.