Quotes About Loneliness

the moon's incurious eye.

At my age, you don't cry for the loss of old friends. You make a noise, "Ah," that is an expression of sorrow, but also of contentment that your friend lived a good life. It is, I suppose, the sound, too, of loneliness—here is yet another person I will never see again.

I wondered if I even had a self. "I miss you," I said aloud. Surprised at myself, I looked around to see if anyone had heard, but no one was n

I want my mother right now. I want her so desperately that I physically ache to have her hold me, and it's absolutely bullshit that I have no one.

Where is my human pillow? Where are my clothes? Why am I alone in this bed? Do I smell coffee? Do I have a headache because I drank too much tequila or because someone hit me over the head while I was sleeping when I got frisky?

You have more strength than anyone should. All those years that you were alone? That you isolated yourself? You didn't have friends, you didn't have anyone to be close with, to talk with, or… or play with. You were alone. That must have been painful, and yet you rallied anyway and kept going. It takes strength to stay apart from the crowd. You are brave, Celeste.

He could see it because he knew that lonely people hide secrets more than others.

It's been too many nights of being with to now be suddenly without.

The numbing mind-ream of knowing you're alone not because people won't accept you but because you find so little worth accepting. An imposed solitude is better than simply tolerating your company in waiting for something better. So loneliness is not such a terrible thing when you consider that the alternative to thought provoking solace is to be surrounded only by remindings of why that solitude is preferable.

Dear Die-ary, I stared, motionless, before the mirror. As always, I stayed until I'm convinced that there is no glass, nothing, separating me from the room I see on the other side. I imagine that everything is different over there. Better. There are people, in that world, who I would like. But, like always, my hand hits the glass. I know that if I'd only waited just one more second... Shit. I'm gonna go kill a party clown.

A woman who had fallen out of love with her life

What did I do? I read books and studied. I listened to my parents and did what they asked me to. Even though, in the end, I never made them happy. I didn't like myself, and something told me I'd end up alone.

Ashoke suspects that Mrs. Jones (the secretary at his new job as a professor) ...is about his own mother's age. Mrs. Jones leads a life that Ashoke's mother would consider humiliating: eating alone, driving herself to work in snow and sleet, seeing her children and grandchildren, at most, three or four times a year.

For as grateful as she feels for the company of the Nandis and Dr. Gupta, these acquaintances are only substitutes for the people who really ought to be surrounding them. Without a single grandparent or parent or uncle or aunt at her side, the baby's birth, like most everything else in America, feels somehow haphazard, only half true.

I grow sad looking at all those brand-new suitcases, all of them empty, waiting for a traveler, waiting for various things to fill them, waiting for someplace to go.

She cries as she feeds him, and as she pats him to sleep, and as he cries between sleeping and feeding. She cries after the mailman's visit because there are no letters from Calcutta. She cries when she calls Ashoke at his department and he does not answer. One day she cries when she goes to the kitchen to make dinner and discovers that they've run out of rice.

There were black mountains on which nothing, no grass or trees, seemed to grow. Thin lines that twisted unpredictably, with tributaries arriving nowhere. Not rivers, but roads.

Suddenly he imagines the house where Bridget's husband lives alone, longing for her, with his unfaithful wife's name on the mailbox, her lipstick beside his shaving things. Only then does he feel guilty.

Things were different now, of course; those solitary hours he'd once savored had become a prison for him, a commonplace.

I feel sad as I laugh; I didn't know love at her age. What did I do? I read books and studied. I listened to my parents and did what they asked me to. Even though, in the end, I never made them happy. I didn't like myself, and something told me I'd end up alone.

No hospital, porém um leve movimento do bebê a faz lembrar que, tecnicamente, não está sozinha. Estranha o fato de que sua criança nascerá num lugar onde as pessoas geralmente entram para sofrer ou para morrer.

At night, on the other hand, I already know that I'm not going to get any sleep in this room they've stuck me in. It's the kind of room that makes me hate the world. I'd toss all this stuff out the window, if I could. I might even toss myself out. I'm on the twelfth floor. But these windows don't open.

I want to do good work, but having kids and a life outside of that is important, too. If you don't have anybody around who loves you, then what's it all for? You're just lonely in the end.

I've always seen my work as trying to make the connection with men who no one really spends time with.