Quotes About Alienation

I was only listening to rock music, burning joss sticks in my bedroom, wanting only to be a disc jockey, and watching six hours of television a night - the worst kind of teenage alienation.

I really disliked Philadelphia society - really, deeply disliked it. I spent a lot of my teenage years writing poetry attacking it.

I was an incredibly lonely, very alienated teenager.

'The Catcher in the Rye.' When I was a teenager, that was my book; yes, somebody gets it, somebody gets adolescence.

You can never empathize with your parents as a teenager. You just think they're just on another planet.

I think every teenager feels like a Martian in something, whether it's in their family, I think, or in their school. I think every teenager, every human being has a sense that they don't belong somewhere.

I was a very isolated teenager.

We do stigmatise teens a lot and see them as scary and alien.

So technologies, whether it is a telephone or an iPhone, computers in general or automobiles, television even, all individualize us. We all sit in front of our iPhones and communicating but are we really communicating?

Television shows and movies that are all white, I can't watch them. They totally alienate me.

A Jew without Jews, without Judaism, without Zionism, without Jewishness, without a temple or an army or even a pistol, a Jew clearly without a home, just the object itself, like a glass or an apple.

We're all born strangers to ourselves and each other, and we're seldom formally introduced.

Social dislocation can easily breed a reactionary form of nostalgia.

In any artistic rendering of the city theme alienation is a constant. Given the anonymity the city provides, it could hardly be otherwise. Artists, especially writers, have recognised this dichotomy, and that cities have always proved a source of freedom by providing anonymity, notwithstanding the estrangement and isolation that goes with it. Indeed, the city's impetus towards modernity is to be found in that narrow zone between loss of community and discovery of self.

It's the loneliest feeling in the world-to find yourself standing up when everybody else is sitting down. To have everybody look at you and say, 'What's the matter with him?' I know. I know what it feels like. Walking down an empty street, listening to the sound of your own footsteps. Shutters closed, blinds drawn, doors locked against you. And you aren't sure whether you're walking toward something, or if you're just walking away.

She was moving in circles where she felt alone.

I wasn't safe. I wasn't permanent. My life was a fiction I had created, like an alien who comes to earth and tries to pass as human. The affections of my friends meant nothing to me, directed, as they were, toward a person who wasn't there. There was nobody home.

Standing in the center of the crowd, his solitude was enormous. He felt that in all the vast and frozen space in which he lived his life - every hand needy, every heart wanting something from him - everybody had a reason to be and a place to land. Everybody but him. For him there was nothing. In all the cold and bitter world, there was not a single place for him to sit down.

In one sense, (Duchamp's) "The Large Glass" is a glimpse into Hell; a peculiarly modernist Hell of repetition and loneliness.

A mãe teve reuniões com vãrios professores. (...) «Robert vive num mundo construído por ele. Eu sei que ele é meu filho, mas por vezes tenho a sensação de que ele veio não de mim e do meu marido, mas de algum outro lugar para onde tenta voltar (...)»".

A mãe teve reuniões com vários professores. (...) «Robert vive num mundo construído por ele. Eu sei que ele é meu filho, mas por vezes tenho a sensação de que ele veio não de mim e do meu marido, mas de algum outro lugar para onde tenta voltar. (...)»

Flabby, bald, lobotomized,he drifted in a sheepish calm,where no agonizing reappraisaljarred his concentration on the electric chair—hanging like an oasis in his airof lost connections.

The Aquarium is gone. Everywhere,giant finned cars nose forward like fish;a savage servilityslides by on grease.

Flabby, bald, lobotomized, he drifted in a sheepish calm, where no agonizing reappraisal jarred his concentration on the electric chair- hanging like an oasis on his air of lost connections...