Quotes About Loneliness

the pain that underlies all pain: the pain that we are all, as Rilke phrases it, "unutterably alone.

The reward for attention is always healing. It may begin as the healing of a particular pain—the lost lover, the sickly child, the shattered dream. But what is healed, finally, is the pain that underlies all pain: the pain that we are all, as Rilke phrases it, "unutterably alone.

Do you think too long a period of nightlessness," mused Sandra, "could drive you insane, the way they say sleeplessness can?

There are two essential kinds of loneliness: that of not having found someone to love, and that of having been deprived of the one you did love. The first kind is worse. Nothing can compare to the loneliness of the soul in adolescence.

Next to not living with those one loves, the worst torture is living with those one doesn't love.

Part of love is preparing for death... Afterwards comes the madness. And then the loneliness... [People say] you'll come out of it... And you do come out of it, that's true. But you don't come out of it like a train coming out of a tunnel, bursting through the Downs into sunshine and that swift, rattling descent to the Channel; you come out of it as a gull comes out of an oil slick; you are tarred and feathered for life.

There is the question of loneliness. But again, this is not how you imagined it (if you had ever tried to imagine it). There are two essential kinds of loneliness: that of not having found someone to love, and that of having been deprived of the one you did love. The first kind is worse.

At a social event she and I would normally have attended together, an acquaintance came up and said to me, simply, "There's someone missing." That felt correct, in both senses.

Viver sozinho tem momentos de auto-comiseração e paranóia.

That next week was one of the loneliest of my life. There seemed nothing left to look forward to.

Point One. I'm not a go-between. Whatever you say stays in thisroom and it doesn't get leaked back. Point Two. I'm not a shrink, I'm not some kind of advice centre, I don't even much like listening to other people's woes. [...] Point Three. I'm just an old soak whose life hasn't worked out and who lieves alone with her dogs. So I'm not an authority on anything.

Gustave's last years are arid and solitary. He

cambio, es como un loro que salta de rama en rama y parlotea a la vista de todos.» Gustave se imaginaba que era una fiera salvaje: le encantaba pensar que era un oso polar, remoto, silvestre y solitario. Yo acepté esta idea suya, y hasta le dije que era un búfalo salvaje de las praderas americanas; pero es posible que no fuera más que un loro.

now some were keeping themselves at bay, having reached the age when illness arrives. There were emails about prostate cancer, and back operations, and that little bit of heart trouble which maybe wasn't such good news. Vitamin pills and statins were consumed, while the World Service kept them company in their sleeplessness. And soon, no doubt, the funeral years would begin.

At the end of my first year at university, I was at home for three months, visibly and unrepentantly bored. Those of the same age today will find it hard to imagine the laboriousness of communication back then. Most of my friends were far-flung, and—by some unexpressed but clear parental mandate—use of the telephone was discouraged. A letter, and then a letter in reply. It was all slow-paced, and lonely.

Sad sex is the saddest sex of all.

Did he mean for her to look at something she loved and think of him? How dare he. He had no right to give her gifts. No right to remind her she was alone by ensuring that she was not. No right to test whether she had a heart. No right to court her, to please her, or to do whatever he bloody well might be doing by giving her a kitten.

He was a relentlessly cheerful presence, talked only of himself but so good-naturedly that she indulged him. He certainly laughed a good deal. Something about his laugh made her feel more alone than if she were standing on a high cliff at the end of the world, shouting her name into the void to hear it echo back at her.

Sometimes the only choices we have, even the ones made out of love, isolate us.

No one ever found out what was happening inside me. How the pain was eating me away. No one ever came to my rescue, or stood up for me.

Everything seems to be working. Except me. I'm broken.

I have no intent. I have no reason to live, that's all. When I'm gone, I don't want to be remembered.

At the end I am always alone.

There is something absent in me, I thought. Something incomplete. Even my mother couldn't describe me. There was something empty in me that in other people was full.