Quotes About Emptiness

Entiendo que lo único peor que sentir dolor es no sentir absolutamente nada.

No comer genera desgano, genera enemistades inexistentes, hace que quienes te aman muten en enemigos mortales. Hace que quieras huir de tu casa, de tu cuerpo, de tu cabeza: todo te agota, te hace sentir un cadáver odioso al que todos temen acercarse.

Love everywhere, and none for me.

Maar wij ongelovigen, wij sterven met onze decors, te vermoeid om onszelf in de luren te leggen door de pracht en praal die beloofd is aan ons kadaver...

The same feeling of not belonging, of futility, wherever I go: I pretend interest in what matters nothing to me, I bestir myself mechanically or out of charity, without ever being caught up, without ever being somewhere. What attracts me is elsewhere, and I don't know what that elsewhere is.

Neyin var Arezki? Mutsuz görünüyorsun. Bir odam?z olsun istemedik mi? Var i?te. Yanyanay?z. Nedir seni üzen? Neyin eksik? -Evet do?ru görüyorsun. Bir ?eyim eksik. Sana bunu anlatamam. Dü? gücüm eksik. Gelece?i canland?ram?yorum gözümde. Dü?ler al?p ba?lar?n? gittiler, geri gelmiyorlar…

She felt like a part of her body had been ripped off. The fact that everyone didn't stare seemed absolutely impossible. How could a loss that big be that invisible?

This water is cool and clean as anything I have ever tasted; it tastes of my father leaving, of him never having been there, of having nothing after he was gone.

She was bereft of love. She had never, not once in her life, been truly in love.

Nothing is quite as depressing as depression.

I see myself abandoned, solitary, thrown into a cell without dimensions, where light and shadows are silent phantoms. Within my inner self I find the silence I am seeking. But it leaves me so bereft of any memory of any human being and of me myself, that I transform this impression into the certainty of physical solitude. Were I to cry out — I can no longer see things clearly — my voice would receive the same indifferent echo from the walls of the earth.

She had no idea how to cope with life and she was only vaguely aware of her own inner emptiness. Were she capable of explaining herself, she might well confide: the world stands outside me. I stand outside myself.

She knew what desire was — though she didn't know she knew. It was like this: she was starving but not for food, it was a kind of painful taste that rose from the pit of her stomach and made her nipples quiver and her arms empty without an embrace.

She felt like a dry branch, sticking out of the air. Brittle, covered in old bark. Maybe she was thirsty, but there was no water nearby. And above all the suffocating certainty that if a man were to embrace her at that moment she would feel not a soft sweetness in her nerves, but lime juice stinging them, her body like wood near fire, warped, crackling, dry.

Instead of obtaining myself by fleeing, I find myself forsaken, alone, tossed into a dimensionless cubicle, where light and shadow are quiet ghosts. In my interior I find the silence I seek. But in it I become so lost from any memory of a human being and of myself that I make this impression into the certainty of physical solitude. If I were to scream - already without lucidity I imagine - my voice would receive the same, indifferent echo of the walls of the earth

I had reached nothingness, and the nothingness was live and moist.

I was now so much greater that I could no longer see myself. As great as a far-off landscape. I was far off. But perceptible in my furthest mountains and in my remotest rivers: the simultaneous present no longer scared me, and in the furthest extremity of me I could finally smile without even smiling. At last I was stretching beyond my sensibility.

she was inept. Inept for living. She had no idea how to cope with life and she was only vaguely aware of her own inner emptiness. Were she capable of explaining herself, she might well confide: the world stands outside me. I stand outside myself.

Cerra as janelas do quarto — não ver, não ouvir, não sentir. Na cama silenciosa, flutuante na escuridão, aconchega-se como no ventre perdido e esquece. Tudo é vago, leve e mudo.

Quando rezava conseguia um oco de alma - e esse oco é o tudo que posso eu jamais ter. Mais do que isso, nada. Mas o vazio tem valor e a semelhança do pleno. Um meio de obter é não procurar, um meio de ter é o de não pedir e somente acreditar que o silêncio que eu creio em mim é resposta e meu - a meu mistério.

El domingo se levantaba más temprano aún para estar más tiempo sin hacer nada. El peor momento de su vida era el fin de la tarde de ese día: caía en una meditación inquieta, el vacío del domingo estéril.

Estaba viendo claramente el vacío. Y ni entendía aquello que una parte de ella entendía. ¿Qué haría de esa lucidez? Sabía también que aquella claridad suya se podía volver el infierno humano.

Life, my love, is a great seduction in which all that exists seduces. That room that was deserted and for that reason primally alive. I had reached the nothing, and the nothing was living and moist.

The room was the opposite of what I'd created in my home, the opposite of the soft beauty I'd made from my talent for arrangement, my talent for living, the opposite of my serene irony, of my sweet and absentminded irony: it was a violation of my quotation marks, the quotation marks that made me a citation of myself. The room was the portrait of an empty stomach.