Quotes About Loneliness

Not me, girl dear, not me in the whole wide world. You need a man…I'm just a corpse walking.

It was strange how, when there was nothing else in your life, sex was everything.

The poet Hafiz writes, Don't surrender your loneliness So quickly. Let it cut more deep. Let it ferment and season you As few human Or even divine ingredients can.

I desire to be with you. I miss you. I feel lonely when I can't see you. I am obsessed with you, fascinated by you, infatuated with you. I hunger for your taste, your smell, the feel of your soul touching mine.

An ocean with a single shore gets little traffic.

Early on, if I was alone two three nights in a row, I'd start writing poems about suicide.

Early on, if I was alone two or three nights in a row, I'd start writing poems about suicide.

She wondered why he hadn't come after her. How many men would let their wives walk out of a restaurant late at night and not give a damn where they went ? She wished she could stop thinking

There's a leaf clinging fast to a branch, though withered, it somehow holds on, and a single bird singing its song, though all of its kindred have gone. And as long as that little leaf stays, and as long as that stubborn bird sings, then autumn remains in the world, and winter must wait in the wings.

Aimlessly It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. No One listens to poetry. — from "Thing Language

Loneliness is necessary for pure poetry. When someone intrudes into the poet's life (and any sudden personal contact, whether in the bed or in the heart, is an intrusion) the poet loses his or her balance for a moment, slips into being what he or she is, uses his or her poetry as one would use money or sympathy. The person who writes the poetry emerges, tentatively, like a hermit crab from a conch shell. The poet, for that instant, ceases to be a dead person.

I felt I'd used up most of my life's words in the palace, among folk who were never really mine, in a place that wasn't home.

I've started to feel very odd within my own life. It's most peculiar to feel lonely inside your own life.

I am lying to myself. I am always lying to myself and I really must stop it. I am alone. My friends don't know how to talk to me or write to me any more

Can anyone understand how it is to have lived in the White House and then, suddenly, to be living alone as the President's widow?

Sometimes, I used to sit under the sky, on a clear night, and gaze at the stars, saying, in my croaky voice: "Lord, if you're up there somewhere, and you aren't too busy, come and say a few words to me, because I'm very lonely and it would make me so happy." Nothing happened. So I reckon that humanity— which I wonder whether I belong to —really had a very vivid imagination.

what does it matter if I've become mute in a world where there is no one to talk to?

Otto gave me a copy of the farewell letter Anne wrote to me in hiding. I was surprised because there were two letters: the second was a reply to a letter she pretended I had written to her. She wrote: "I am thinking so much of you," and "Let's always be good friends until I come back." She must have been very lonely.

I don't know," he said softly. "I look into the future and I don't see anything else. It's like it's this big blank space where I should be.

And freedom? Oh, freedom. Well that's just some people talking. Your prison is walking through this world all alone.

Being left is easier, elicits more sympathy, gives reason for tears.

They talk about everything that happened right in front of me like I'm not there. They don't see me. When you don't see someone, she disappears. That's why I'm vanishing.

I'll always remember our first night together, you so flushed and shy, me knowing what I know but scared too because you are the first one I loved. We poured our loneliness into each other and filled the emptiness and dark corners of this place with joy. I think of your long straight back, your strong legs, your hair on the pillow, your dark eyes close, and say your name over and over...it is the sound of bells.

Le cirque est reparti, laissant un rond dans l'herbe Et puis moi je suis seule et je tourne dedans Je tourne comme un vieux cheval. Adieu, superbe, adieu vorace instant quand nous marchions ardents.