Quotes About Emptiness

All chances of happiness are gone from me. Just being with myself is hell all the time anyway.

You imagine that to live in a state of extremity is necessarily to discover the truth about yourself. What you discover then is violence and emptiness. And of this you make a virtue.

I crave for love, everybody does . . . and I've never had a bloody crumb of it—and I've given so much love to people—I can really love people, I can, I let them walk over me—but nobody's ever loved me.

You see, I'm not mad, I suffer from depression. It's not like ordinary misery. It's like dying of boredom. It's black .

I was born to be nothing and to have nothing.

Sometimes I just feel so shut in, with all those people and they've all got something while I've got nothing.

But I can't do anything for him and he can't do anything for me. We must wail in our own corners.

Oh Irina, there's so much life for us. Is there? I feel I have no life. There's nothing in front of me but a black wall.

I must have been assuming that without me there it would be all cobwebs and desolation.

She thought, this is the end of happiness, darkness begins here.

I can't tell you—oh I can't tell you—how awful—how sort of unlivable—everything is now—like a great black wall in front of me—Something's got to smash.

there was a feeling as if I carried a small leaden coffin in the place of my heart

All the effort which he had put into making himself seemed vanity now that there were no more purposes

You can go now. There's nothing more to learn. I am poured out and empty. Good night.

I'm as lonely as a lunatic.

I can't quite believe he has actually left this scene, left our lives, wherein he was always so significant!

He felt removed from reality.

The only cure here was death. They were both gone out of my life.

Cambridge by moonlight was light blue and brownish black. There was no mist here and a great vault of clear stars hung over the city with an intent luxurious brilliance. It was the sort of night when one knows of other galaxies. My long shadow glided before me on the pavement. Although it was not yet eleven o'clock the place seemed empty and I moved through it like a mysterious and lonely harlequin in a painting: like an assassin.

He did not consciously wish for death but he grieved at night for some blank thing which he could not even name.

She has lost the instinct for happiness.

Yet the love is there, the love is there — only it's as if it's so wounded it has curled up and gone into a black hole.

The absence of the loved person is so absolute.

For years he had been incapable of tears.