Best 18 quotes of Anneli Rufus on MyQuotes

After what others would call a fun day out together, we feel as if we have been at the Red Cross, donating blood.

And as experienced as I am, it still summons an act of bravery from me, and I like that. I like the idea of setting an example - proving that it is acceptable to be alone in a public place where everyone else is in groups, and to just be sitting there eating, not having to be engrossed in anything else.

Loners, if you catch them, are well worth the trouble. Not dulled by excess human contact, nor blasé or focused on your crotch while jabbering about themselves, loners are curious, vigilant, full of surprises. They do not cling. Separate wherever they go, awake or asleep, they shimmer with the iridescence of hidden things seldom seen.

Loners live among the mob, so the mob mistakes us for its own, presuming and assuming. When the mob gets too close, the truth is revealed. Running or walking away, chased or free, any which way, we tell the mob in effect I don't need you.

Not that I was incapable of friendship. 'Don't be shy', the teachers coaxed. I was not shy, only extremely choosy. And Denise shone like a diamond. If you had to ask me to define paradise, I would have said a desert island which Denise could visit, on a boat.

Socializing is as exhausting as giving blood. People assume we loners are misanthropes, just sitting thinking, ‘Oh, people are such a bunch of assholes,’ but it’s really not like that. We just have a smaller tolerance for what it takes to be with others. It means having to perform. I get so tired of communicating.

The whole world is a personality cult.

We care. We feel. We think. We do not always miss the absent one. We cannot always come when called. Being friends with a loner requires patience and the wisdom that distance does not mean dislike.

We do not require company. In varying degrees, it bores us, drains us, makes our eyes glaze over. Overcomes us like a steamroller. Of course, the rest of the world doesn't understand.

Writing is done alone. People do not talk about the things they do alone.

Because loners are born everywhere, we end up living everywhere. We do not, have not, tended to single ourselves out as special, elite, requiring rarefied environments. Too often we have done the opposite; lived where we lived because our jobs were there, or families, or because we'd heard the schools were good there, or that we would love a place with changing seasons. Then, no matter what, we put our noses to the grindstone. We take living there as a fait accompli, a fact. Too often we are miserable somewhere without realizing why. We blame ourselves for not buckling down, settling in, fitting in. The problem is the place, but too often we do not see this, we will not allow ourselves to see this. It's the same old thing: This is a friendly town, so what's your problem? ...To the non-loner, or the self-reproaching loner, the fact of being a loner is not comparable to those other determinants. It is not a matter of life and death, we tell ourselves. It its not a matter of breathing or of execution by stoning. But home is the crucible of living...So how can living not be a matter of life and death?

Generalization is impossible. It is an insult.

I don’t hate my relatives or those whose names fill my address book. But I do not want to have lunch with any of them. It is not personal. I am not angry. Nor is this about being afraid. I am not shy. I do not have terrible manners. Do birds hate lips? Do Fijians detest snowplows? Being a loner is not about hate, but need: We need what others dread. We dread what others need.

Often the circumstances in which we lost our self-esteem were relationships distinguished by a steeply unequal power balance. Our spellcasters were parents. Teachers. Bullies. So-called friends. Strangers. Romantic partners. Cliques. Coworkers. Your spellcaster was the mean first grader. Or the psycho in the dark. Or the town, school, Scout troop, spiritual community, family, neighborhood that did not understand your type, whatever that type was. Your spellcaster could even be society at large, that nameless, faceless "them" with boundless power and a thousand biases. And it became unbearable to be the bullied one, the hounded one, the outcast and excluded one. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, the old saying goes. Others hated us, or appeared to. We joined 'em.

Our never-ending dread has little bearing on the outside world. That is, unless and until it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Enter enough relationships already certain you will make them fail and you will make some fail. Predict you will drive everyone away and some will be driven away. Inertia. Reticence. Shuffling with heads hung low, avoiding eye contact, always apologizing, seeking reassurance but no amount is ever enough. To others, these habits of ours are exhausting and boring. Life with us is lots of work, Loving those who hate themselves is like swimming upstream: often more trouble than it is worth.

They say isolation drives you crazy. Sure it does - when you can't get enough of it.

Troubles always ensue when assumptions clash, when expectations do not match.

Was it prejudice that played this trick on you? Or was it expectations of accomplishment, obedience, inclusion, loyalty, or conformity? Subtle, unspoken cruelty or outright abuse? Was it a million tiny things you never even noticed happening, nothing direct or obvious but gestures, glances, images on billboards, yearnings disallowed that left you comparing yourself to everyone and, in your own eyes, falling short? Or was it love? Well-meant guidance gone wrong? Catastrophe? Words overheard? Who put those weapons in your hands, and where are those perpetrators now? What are they doing as we speak? Are they thinking of you? Can they even recall your name or face?