Quotes About Loneliness

a bird no one wants. he's mine. my bird of pain. he doesn't sing. that bird swaying on the bough.

Zemër, i thash, Unë jam një gjeni por askush nuk e di këtë, përpos unë.

and I sit there alone with you and Dostoevsky as the real and the artificial heart continues to falter, famished… I love you but don't know what to do.

A man needed somebody. There wasn't anybody around, so you had to make up somebody, make him up to be like a man should be. It wasn't make-believe or cheating. The other way was make-believe and cheating: living your life without a man like him around.

Parker had a young white boy with him-one of the neurotic tribe of the lost- and the kid's eyes were filled with wet layers of tears. One big tear in each eye. They did not drop out. It was fascinating. I had seen women sit and look at me with those same eyes before they got mad and started screaming about what a son of a bitch I was.

I was still tough but it wasn't the same. I had to withdraw. I watched people from afar, it was like a stage play. Only they were on stage and I was an audience of one.

It made me feel good to write about the Baron. A man needed somebody. There wasn't anybody around, so you had to make up somebody, make him up to be like a man should be. It wasn't make- believe or cheating. The other way was make-believe and cheating: living your life without a man like him around.

No life anywhere, no life in this town or this place or in this weary existence

we forget the terror of one person aching in one room alone unkissed untouched cut off watering a plant alone without a telephone that would never ring anyway.

I look like a man in a death camp. I am. still, I'm lucky: I feat on solitude, I will never miss the crowd.

I was 50 years old and hadn't been to bed with a woman for four years. I had no women friends. I looked at them as I passed them on the streets or wherever I saw them, but I looked at them without yearning and with a sense of futility. I masturbated regularly, but the idea of having a relationship with a woman- even on non-sexual terms-was beyond my imagination.

My eyes were blue and my shoes were old and nobody loved me. But I had things to do.

she died of alcoholism wrapped in a blanket on a deck chair on an ocean steamer. all her books of terrified loneliness all her books about the cruelty of loveless love were all that was left of her as the strolling vacationer discovered her body notified the captain and she was quickly dispatched to somewhere else on the ship as everything continued just as she had written it.

she was consumed by 2 simple things: despair, loneliness; and oh 2 more: youth and beauty

Then I heard a man scream from the next ward, Joe, where are you? Joe, you said you'd come back! Joe, where are you? The voice was loud and so sad, so agonized.(...) Joe wasn't coming. It didn't pay to trust another human being. Humans didn't have it, whatever it took.

beware those quick to praise for they need praise in return beware those who are quick to censor they are afraid of what they do not know beware those who seek constant crowds for they are nothing alone

The old gal was only another lonely creature in a world that didn't care

I bought two tall six-packs of Schlitz and went back to my place and drank down the requiem.

But I gave the girl my address and phone number, thinking we might make it on the springs. (Harriet, you never arrived.)

guido per le strade, ad un passo dal pianto, vergognandomi del mio sentimentalismo e del mio possibile amore.

Old ladies standing in halls, up and down the streets, asking the same question as if they were one person with one voice: "Mailman, you got any mail for me?" And you felt like screaming, "Lady, how the hell do I know who you are or I am or anybody is?

Crear arte significa estar terriblemente solo para siempre.

9:09 in the morning, the taste of liquor and cigarettes, no police, no lovers, walking the streets, this poem, this city, closing its doors, barricaded, almost empty, mournful without tears, aging without pity, the hardrock mountains, the ocean like a lavender flame, a moon destitute of greatness, a small music from broken windows… a poem is a city, a poem is a nation, a poem is the world…

Lees je Céline?' vroeg een vrouwenstem. Haar stem klonk tamelijk sexy. Ik had me al een tijd eenzaam gevoeld. Tientallen jaren eigenlijk.[...] 'Nou, aan de slag. Ik wil Frankrijks grootste schrijver. Ik wacht al heel lang.