Quotes About Disconnection

Their eyes seemed to see another life—a life that was losing clarity and focus. And those beasts that had been there the longest could see only wire mesh and concrete. All memories of the past had drained from them. They sat on their logs and their rocks, their heads slowly scrolling left and right like dementia patients, mesmerized by the passing visitors but not at all interested in

if they could only see how impossibly removed the two of them were from any sort of actual power.

Then you go on talking, about something you never actually mention. And your forehead and mouth are as far apart as they can be.

Windisch closes his eyes. He feels his eyes. He feels his eyeballs in his hands. His eyes without a face.

The problem with cell phones is that you can't slam them down into a cradle when you hang up. Your only option is to throw them, and if you do, they just skitter across the floor and crack their case. It's not satisfying at all. I close my eyes and bend down to pick up the pieces.

At the window of my room, I catch my reflection in the glass. Shaggy black hair. Sneer.I look like a hungry ghost, glowering in at a world I am no longer fit to be a part of.

I hate you all. For no particular reason. I guess it's for the sympathy, the pity and understanding, but most of all, for the hope.

Excuse me?' A beaming female face swims into focus. A woman has touched her on the arm and Grace is disconcerted, as though someone on television waved at her. She feels so remote from the world, from normal people, she thought she was invisible.

Her brain couldn't seem to catch up with the news. It was like the way she'd kept rolling toward Will last night in her sleep, only to find empty space where he should have been, and then waking up with a jolt.

She has a strange, not unpleasant sense of disconnection from everyone, as if she is floating somewhere high above her head and operating her body by remote control. Stretch lips to smile. Fold palms of hands around pram handle. Tip head towards child in motherly fashion.

if you could float when there was no room, no space anywhere, above, below, when you couldn't take a step without feeling the spongy give of rotting stuff beneath your feet. She

Now they were merely trying to fill themselves up but not with the heart, not the soul. They'd lost both those along the way...

unto me a son was born, and I felt nothing.

I was disquieted to realize that he had ceased to call me anything at all. That seemed impossible, but your children generally use your name when they want something, if only attention, and Kevin was loath to beseech me for so much as a turned head.

Likewise the innards of my sole telephone socket are disgorged; my uncertain connection to the outside world dangles by two poorly soldered wires, and it often cuts off.

She didn't need 'little chunks of home'. They were like slightly sinister postcards from old enemies.

I felt the kind of loneliness that can happen in a roomful of people when everyone but you seems to be in on the good time.

What does your gut tell you?" "My gut and I aren't currently speaking to each other

I've had nothing to do with the intelligence world since I left it, in any shade or variety.

My books have been translated into various languages and sold in other countries, but I never have any contact with the foreign publishers and am so disconnected from that process that it seems almost imaginary. With 'How to Save a Life', I worked closely with Usborne editors and have been involved in the publicity.

Those who sit at the feast will continue to enjoy themselves even though the veil that separates them from the world of toiling reality below has been lifted by mass revolts and critics.

And so Deb is the only person in the world who gives a rusty possum fart whether I live or die.

The young woman shrugged, walked to her computer, picked it up. She flopped down on the couch and scanned through it. This was something else I'd noticed that my principals had done more and more recently, in the safe house and halfway motels: withdrawn into their cyberwombs. Joanne

What good is it to perform anyway? The audience sits there like logs, they cough and sneeze, they don't dress up anymore. Do you know what it's like playing Brahms for people wearing blue jeans and T-shirts?