Quotes About Loneliness

I am a sick man - oh, not my body. It is my soul, my brain. I seem to have lost all values. I care for nothing. If you had been this way a few months ago, it would have been different. It is too late, now.

nor did he dream that such persons were as lonely eagles sailing solitary in the azure sky far above the earth and its swarming freight of gregarious life.

Lonely he had lived, so far as his kind was concerned, and lonely he would continue to live.

Burnunu yukar? dikip bütün dertlerini anlatt? soÄŸuk y?ld?zlara.

Per cinque anni udì soltanto una parola gentile, ricevette una sola carezza, e non capì di che si trattava.

Tahitians, knew that it was madness to go on alone.  So he stood waist-deep in the grass and looked regretfully across the rolling savannah and the soft-swelling foothills to the Lion's Head, a massive peak of rock that upreared into the azure from the midmost centre of Guadalcanar, a landmark used for bearings by every coasting mariner, a mountain as yet

It's funny how despair can soon become an old companion

Tis a lonely business, being miserable when happiness abounds. I did my best to hide it, although the people who knew me well, knew.

There were barbs on the words, his formal address. I endured them in silence and watched him go, leaving me alone with the remorseless pleasure of my pain.

Qué importa ya si me he quedado muda en un mundo en donde no tengo nadie con quien hablar?

New York you forgot how cold and bleak winter could be. The neon lights, the moving crowds, the taxi-filled streets stampeded the snow into slush and the slush into gray water that quickly disappeared and you forgot about the bare, desolate ground of the outside world. The loneliness of winter. The

Lily was strapped in her special chair. She sang, "Ur ur ur ur ur," quietly to herself.

You can't always be pushing people away. Someday nobody'll come back.

Porque quererse es un castigo y es un abismo vivir juntos.

I live for the few minutes I can talk with a sensible human being, but every time I do, I feel worse than before.

He wondered how men could live till they were seventy if they endured such passions as he had known that fifteenth summer, and although he knew many things...he did not even guess that men are able to live because slowly, one by one, they snuff out the fires of spring until only embers burn in white dignity, in loneliness, and often in cold despair.

He was reminded that men may be angels, but they are animals, too. They are driven by uncontrollable forces and only the love of other people makes it possible for them to survive. Men are lonely and are stricken in the night. They lock their jaws against themselves. They scream like animals, and even though they ridicule love and the forces of destruction, they are themselves theatres for the operation of such forces.

The secret, Kenny, is that people are lonely. They want friends. They want to talk with their neighbors, and laugh and cut up. But by themselves they simply cannot do it. Believe me, Kenny, you could have the Louvre Museum, that's in Paris, right over here and they'd never go see it unless I led them, and joked with them, and told them how much fun it's going to be, something they'll never forget.' "I

When the sting of anguish penetrates the heart of human love; when gloom and loneliness and desertion cloud the soul of friendship and trust, then it is that the heart turns toward the sheltering love of the Eternal, and finds rest in its silent peace. And whosoever comes to this Love is not turned away comfortless, is not pierced with anguish nor surrounded with gloom; and is never deserted in the dark hour of trial.

Somebody, said Jacques, your father or mine, should have told us that not many people have ever died of love. But multitudes have perished, and are perishing every hour - and in the oddest places! - for the lack of it.

There is a fearful splendor in absolute desolation.

It's terrible sometimes, inside, he said, that's what's the trouble. You walk these streets, black and funky and cold, and there's not really a living ass to talk to, and there's nothing shaking, and there's no way of getting it out- that storm inside. You can't talk it and you can't make love with it, and when you finally try to get with it and play it, you realize nobody's listening. So you've got to listen. You got to find a way to listen.

not many people have ever died of love. But multitudes have perished, and are perishing every hour… – for the lack of it.

and what in the world was I by now but an aging, lonely, sexually dubious, politically outrageous, unspeakably erratic freak?