Quotes About Loneliness

Mas o silêncio terrível e o vazio pareciam simbolizar seu futuro – era como se a casa, a rua, o mundo estivessem todos vazios, e ela era a única pessoa consciente um universo sem vida.

I simply felt that he lived in a depth of moral isolation too remote for casual access, and I had the sense that his loneliness was not merely the result of his personal plight, tragic as I guessed that to be, but had in it, as Harmon Gow had hinted, the profound accumulated cold of many Starkfield winters

He pulled the sash down and turned back. Catch my death! he echoed; and he felt like adding: But I've caught it already. I am dead--I've been dead for months and months.

The real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only ask one to pretend.

It must be less wicked to love the wrong person than not to love anybody at all.

Death in Venice made me hope that there might be others like me, somewhere out there, possibly in the ritzy nearby community of Charlevoix. He'd be older, rich, devoted to me and my magical youth.

A middle-aged man who's probably down to jerking off every other day. A weary man of forty who's already seen everything come around twice, who let me fuck him that once in a hole where whole armies of men have doubtless passed.

All my life I've made friends and lost lovers and talked about these two activities as though they were very different, opposed; but in truth love is the direct and therefore hopeless method of calling Orpheus back, whereas friendship is the equally hopeless because irrelevant attempt to find warmth in other shades. Odd that in the story Orpheus is lonely, too.

In America everyone called the merest acquaintance a 'friend' – Guy had taken up the habit. It made him feel better about not having any real friends.

Opposite to where she sat the water was a boggy brown, but not too far along it was a dark violet colour, always changing, the way the sweep of the current changed, but as she saw it, her own life did not change at all - the same routine, the same longing and the same loneliness.

Their eyes meet and part, each staring into the forlorn space, a shaft of disappointment, he because he is unable to help her and she because she is thrown back into her own quagmire of uncertainty.

the lonely evening sound of the mothers, saying it is not our fault that we weep so, it is nature's fault that makes us first full, then empty.

The flutter of the leaves brought on your trance. Hundreds of thousands of sycamore leaves all obeying the same wind, their wide green palms opening then tightening, letting in and keeping out the light, changing the prospect from outdoor to indoor, forever altering. It was the most lonesome hour just before dusk with all the colors going, all the streamers , the pinks and reds, and violets and indigos and blues, the lovely laneways of vanquishing light.

they never know one another and they're all crazed and wandering.

tears running down her cheeks and her nose, tears from the cold and the prospect of being absent for weeks.

Waiting for something to happen in the deathly, unhappy silence.

It's sad to know you've gone through it all, or most of it, without… that the one body you'v wrapped your arms around, the only skin you've ever known, is your own… and that's it's dry, and not warm.

The empty highway behind looked like a stretching rubber band.

The lights of the little highway town ahead spread with their approach and then scattered like flushed prey as they entered its limits. Under the filling-station sheds, swirling insects clouded the naked bulbs. The stores were closed; the depot dark.

Aunt Maud was a schoolteacher during her working life. For forty years she taught in the white public schools in New Orleans. English was her subject, mainly, and in retirement, genealogy became her vocation. She was quiet and inward. Maud never married, she had no children. Our ancestors were her offspring.

When they answered the bell on that wild winter night. There was no one expected - and no one in sight.

So much road and so few places, so much friendliness and so little intimacy, so much flavour and so little taste.

Here, though, there is nothing. Nothing at all. The sky seems empty even when I am looking at the moon and stars.

Instead I dreamt of walking out of the world, of spending all my time inside with no one to talk to, and no one to talk to me. All I wanted was a routine, a series of sterile acts that I could perform without dedication or effort, a life where everything was constantly the same, where every day passed exactly like the one before.