Quotes About Emptiness

Say what you want about the modern world and all its evils. But the emptiness of the area was starting to press on him.

And it was lonely, to yearn, all alone.

have starved in other ways. He would have lived a life hungry for feelings, for color, for love.

If he had stayed, he would have starved in other ways. He would have lived a life hungry for feelings, for color, for love.

In a voice not his own, as resonant in this cell as the reverberations in a bass drum, Iroki said, 'Take better care of my gift this time, child. You're going to need it.' The sense but not the sound of an immense belly laugh, tidal, oceans deep. And then as vast as the presence, somehow vaster, absence. The emptiness left was like a room stripped of its very air. One would weep for the loss if one could only breathe.

I didn't know how much I could love until you were gone. Until your laughter no longer filled my home, your wicked high jinks no longer made me crazy. Until I stood in that damned club and knew, without you by side, my life was as empty as my bed was without you in it. I didn't know what love was, until I saw my refusal to admit it drown all the sweet innocence in your eyes. I love you.

He is not coming back. And it hurt.It hurt until she was a mass of pain,worse than it had been when she thought he was dead. More all consuming. Ravaging her insides.

Like the Dorothy Parker heroine who spends her days and nights not calling the lover who does not call her

You can't miss what you never had. And definitely not what you don't understand.

It is unacceptable, all the stunned and anxious missing a person is asked to endure in life. It is not to be endured, not really.

If you were alone when you were born, alone when you were dying, really absolutely alone when you were dead, why learn to be alone in between? If you had forgotten, it would quickly come back to you. Aloneness was like riding a bike. At gunpoint. With the gun in your own hand. Aloneness was the air in your tires, the wind in your hair. You didn't have to go looking for it with open arms. With open arms, you fell off the bike: I was drinking my wine too quickly.

It was not miserable - often I did not miss her at all. But there was sometimes a quick, sinking ache when I walked in the door and saw she was not there. Twice, however, I'd felt the same sinking feeling when she was.

You have a choice, she told the class. The whorish emptiness of lies or the straightlaced horrors of truth.

Tell him not to smoke in your apartment. Tell him to get out. At first he protests. But slowly, slowly, he leaves, pulling up the collar on his expensive beige raincoat, like an old and haggard Robert Culp. Slam the door like Bette Davis. Love drains from you, takes with it much of your blood sugar and water weight. You are like a house slowly losing its electricity, the fans slowing, the lights dimming and flickering; the clocks stop and go and stop.

Her rage flopped awkwardly away like a duck. She felt as she had when her cold, fierce parents had at last grown sick and old, stick-boned and saggy, protected by infirmity the way cuteness protected a baby, or should, it should protect a baby, and she had been left with her rage--vestigial, girlhood rage--inappropriate and intact. She would hug her parents good-bye, the gentle, emptied sacks of them, and think Where did you go?

You reach a point," she wrote me once, "where you cannot cry anymore, and you look around you at people you know, at people your own age, and they're not crying either. Something has been taken. And they are emptier. And they are grateful.

One of the problems with people in Chicago, she remembered, was that they were never lonely at the same time.

All of my joys have been pulled out of my mouth like teeth. All my home is nothing but sadness and silence and ruin and memory. I have been reduced, I am my own ghost, all my own beauty and youth have shrilled away, there are no illusions of happiness to impel me. Life is a prison of poverty and aborted dreams, it is nothing but a slow progress to my place beneath the soil.

A time comes when you are all alone...when you've come to the end of everything that can happen to you. It's the end of the world, even grief, your own grief, doesn't answer you anymore, and you have to retrace your steps, to go back among people, it makes no difference who.

I had always suspected myself of being almost purposeless, of not really having any single serious reason for existing. Now I was convinced, in the face of the facts themselves, of my personal emptiness.

nothing here that

a great big hole

empty brown paper sack would taste better. But

I have nothing to give but my heart so full and these empty hands. They're not empty now.