Quotes About Hollowness

Rawdon knew better than anyone that Becky's promises never amounted to anything but a handful of dust.

Looking everywhere, even though there's absolutely nothing, nothing anywhere.

Some people are born empty. All manner of good deeds and patience and loving kindness can't even begin to fill them up.

Silence hung in the air like secret loss.

There's not enough of me left over.

There seems to be no air in the air she breaths.

At three in the morning the gaudy paint is off that old whore, the world, and she has no nose and a glass eye. Gaiety becomes hollow and brittle, as in Poe's castle surrounded by the Red Death. Horror is destroyed by boredom. Love is a dream.

There was something intrinsically sad about Shinjuku. A vacuum-packed hollowness that no quantity of neon could hide. Roppongi was the same, only there the sadness was older and more Western. All that movement to so little purpose. A million strangers searching for a cure to the darkness behind their eyes in the void between someone else's legs.

When the old way of seeing was displaced, a hollowness came into architecture. Our buildings show a constant effort to fill that void, to recapture that sense of life which was once to be found in any house or shed. Yet the sense of place is not to be recovered through any attitude, device, or style, but through the principles of pattern, spirit, and context." - Jonathan Hale, The Old Way of Seeing, 1994

Palabras superficiales: el amor y el marron glacé son una misma cosa: esplendor por fuera; y por dentro, una castaña helada.

todo invita al descompromiso.11 La desidia está de moda; está de moda la vida rota, deshilachada, así como los personajes sin mensaje interior.12

Y, mirando hacia los rascacielos, se quedó esperando a recibir sensaciones de entusiasmo, de emoción, de plenitud, de felicidad. Sin embargo, la espera se reveló únicamente como una espera, sin más. Una espera plana, sin sobresaltos, sin entusiasmo alguno. Cuanto más miraba a los rascacielos en busca de cierta intensidad, más evidente se hacía que no iba a llegarle sensación especial alguna.

Things are only mannequins and even the great world-historical events are only costumes beneath which they exchange glances with nothingness.

I had a little glimpse of what fame holds, and I decided it held a load of nothing.

So all the rest is O.K., but fame is a hollow ground, isn't it? It's an empty kind of thing.

We are all overdressed in our little flashy frocks, our slasher heels, and we all eat small plates of food bites that are as decorative and unsubstantial as we are.

Finger, whore, hollow!

But his face had that hollow look, as if there was something gone... you know that look. The inward focus. Distantly attentive to the home you're missing, or the someone you're missing. That look that a bird has when it turns it dry reptilian eye on you. That look that doesn't see you because the mind is filled up with someone it would rather see.

A capacity for interiority in the growing adult is threatened by the temptation to squander that capacity ruthlessly, to revel in hollowness. The syndrome especially plagues anyone who lives behind a mask...A hundred ways to duck the question: how will I live with myself now that I know what I know?

And though we have all the comforts of the world, we find no comfort in them.

Certainly, there are huge, multiplatinum bands whose singers command their audience's attention. Sadly, much of the time they have little to say.

It lay broken in half, and he looked into its trunk as into the mouth of a black tunnel. The trunk was only an empty shell; its heart had rotted away long ago; there was nothing inside—just a thin gray dust that was being dispersed by the whim of the faintest wind. The living power had gone, and the shape it left had not been able to stand without it.

He knew, while he spoke, that it was useless, because his words sounded as if they were hitting a vacuum. There was no such person as Mrs. Wayne Wilmot; there was only a shell containing the opinions of her friends, the picture postcards she had seen, the novels of country squires she had read; it was this that he had to address, this immateriality which could not hear him or answer, deaf and impersonal like a wad of cotton.

A glory that costs everything and means nothing.