Quotes About Limbo

A big gloomy space was piled with bags, boxes, suitcases, parcels, umbrellas. There were a few shelves but no apparent order. Some of the bags seemed to have been left where they had been dropped. It was the sort of place horror-film directors dream of, or playwrights of the absurd, a place of the soul, in limbo.

We were not somewhere between success and failure; we were elsewhere.

As a writer - and a romance novelist, no less - I've always found it a bit odd when characters in comic books remain in relationship limbo for years at a time.

There is a limbo of the lost through which American males of a certain age and status almost inevitably must pass these days.

This is vexing: I feel in a kind of limbo - an author but not truly an author, true authorship being conferred by having a book physically published - a thing you can hold in your hand, purchase in a bookshop.

It was not warm and not cold. There was no wind and the sky was very low and grey but it wasn't raining. It was like they'd completely run out of weather.

Dreams are excursions into the limbo of things, a semi-deliverance from the human prison.

It was like I'd become a ghost without having to go through the messy intermediate step of actually dying.

He still felt coreless - he was no one, and he was standing here in the middle of no country. The place was counterfeit, a waiting room between connections, a transition from one way of being to another, which for the moment was neither way, no way.

I am the soul in limbo.

Death is not the end. It is a midway state.

We are all born like Catholics . . . in limbo, without religion.

We are all born like Catholics, aren't we—in limbo, without religion, until some figure introduces us to God?

We are all born like Catholics, aren't we—in limbo, without religion, until some figure introduces us to God? After that meeting the matter ends for most of us. If there is a change, it is usually for the lesser rather than the greater; many people seem to lose God along life's way.

I am in a spot where I can neither be what I always am nor turn into what I could be.

What do you do when you cannot leave and cannot return?

They are twilight creatures, beings of dawn and dusk, of standing between one thing and another, of not quite and almost, of borderlands and shadows.

We lose stories every day because they drift out of use and into the vast limbo of in-copyright, out-of-print books whose ownership is unclear.

When it is dark, the objects and I will come out of limbo

And books that were published in much larger numbers than Selfish, Little are hard to find. And publishers who wanted to publish my last few works have them stuck in limbo while new distribution ideas and legal issues and fears are blown away.

I was always stuck in a musical no man's land.

The camera observed me, but there was nothing in my bag except a pashmina, purse, and Lorazepam. I carried emptiness. Doors opened. Another camera recorded my progress. Doubtless there were thousands of my days repeated thus, interred digitally in limbo. I ascended two steps with nothing to look forward to

My uncle's town, Milburn, is one of those places that seems to create its own limbo and then to nest down in it.

It feels like we've stepped outside of time. Even though there is no such place.