Quotes About Emptiness

The fact is that we're all lonely, of course. Everyone knows this, it's almost a cliché. So yet another layer of my essential fraudulence is that I pretended to myself that my loneliness was special, that it was uniquely my fault because I was somehow especially fraudulent and hollow.

The best ink for Vanity Fair use would be one that faded utterly in a couple of days, and left the paper clean and blank, so that you might write on it to somebody else.

Her heart was dead long before her body. She had sold it to become

For hope is dead, for hope is dead.

Cuando la vida no nos da a tiempo lo elemental, tal vez ya no nos saciaremos con nada, y lo nuestro será la búsqueda eterna de lo que no existe.

This is what drives a young writer out of his head, this feeling that nothing is being said.

Mi sueño es agitado. Mis nervios están desquiciados. Mi piel está seca. Mi cabello cae. Mis ojos están apagados. Las uñas de mis manos y mis pies están quebradizas. Estoy envejeciendo. Comienzo a no encontrar gusto en cosa alguna. Empiezo a aburrirme de las cosas buenas, como me aburro de las malas. Estoy muriendo. Estoy muriendo y no tengo hijos.

I do feel it gone, But know not how it went

Nothing can come of nothing.

We will all laugh at gilded butterflies.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words, Remembers me of his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form

The empty vessel makes the loudest sound.

A Loud Laugh Bespeaks a Vacant Mind!

Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold. Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with!

How shall I abide In this dull world, which in thy absence is No better than a sty?

I dote on his very absence.

Nought's had, all's spent, where our desire is got without content.

On this side my hand, and on that side yours. Now is this golden crown like a deep well That owes two buckets, filling one another, The emptier ever dancing in the air, The other down, unseen and full of water: That bucket down and full of tears am I, Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.

The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself

Not a soul But felt a fever of the mad, and play'd Some tricks of desperation; all but mariners Plung'd in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel; Then all afire with me the King's son Ferdinand With hair up staring ( then like reeds, not hair) Was the first man that leap'd; cried Hell is empty, And all the devils are here.

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world.

and Anthony, Enthroned i'th'market-place, did sit alone Whistling to th'air, which but for vacancy Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, And made a gap in Nature.

I suddenly encountered the face of loneliness, and decided that it was a merciless and ugly face indeed.

loss. Loss in all of its manifestations is the touchstone of depression—in the progress of the disease and, most likely, in its origin