Best 2736 quotes in «loneliness quotes» category

Only the dying know what real loneliness is.

Only on the Internet can a person be lonely and popular at the same time.

Only the thirsty knows the real taste of water; only the lonely knows the real weight of emptiness!

Only the survivors of a death are truly left alone. The connections that made up their life--both the deep connections and the apparently (until they are broken) insignificant connections--have all vanished.

Only worse thing than being cold, and too tired to defend yourself, is to be cold and alone. And I wouldn't ever wish that on nobody.

On our way back to her house, I didn’t look at the city lights any longer. I looked into the sky and felt as if the moon was following us. When I was a child, my grandmother told me that the sky speaks to those who look and listen to it. She said, “In the sky there are always answers and explanations for everything: every pain, every suffering, joy, and confusion.” That night I wanted the sky to talk to me.

On the plane leaving Tokyo I’m sitting alone in back twisting the knobs on Etch-A-Sketch and Roger is next to me singing “Over the Rainbow” straight into my ear, things changing, falling apart, fading, another year, a few more moves, a hard person who doesn’t give a fuck, a boredom so monumental it humbles, arrangements so fleeting made by people you don’t even know that it requires you to lose any sense of reality you might have once acquired, expectations so unreasonable you become superstitious about ever matching them. Roger offers me a joint and I take a drag and stare out the window and I relax for a moment when the lights of Tokyo, which I never realized is an island, vanish from view but this feeling only lasts a moment because Roger is telling me that other lights in other cities, in other countries, on other planets, are coming into view soon.

On the whole I am inclined to think that a witch should not kiss. Perhaps it is the not being kissed that makes her a witch; perhaps the source of her power is the breath of loneliness around her.

On this road there are no godspoke men. They are gone and I am left and they have taken with them the world.

Opportunity comes to everyone it depends on you whether you take it or leave it. Learn to take risks and play hard because at the end you'd be thankful for your struggle.

Orpheus never liked words. He had his music. He would get a funny look on his face and I would say what are you thinking about and he would always be thinking about music. If we were in a restaurant sometimes Orpheus would look sullen and wouldn't talk to me and I thought people felt sorry for me. I should have realized that women envied me. Their husbands talked too much. But I wanted to talk to him about my notions. I was working on a new philosophical system. It involved hats. This is what it is to love an artist: The moon is always rising above your house. The houses of your neighbors look dull and lacking in moonlight. But he is always going away from you. Inside his head there is always something more beautiful. Orpheus said the mind is a slide ruler. It can fit around anything. Show me your body, he said. It only means one thing.

Our language has wisely sensed these two sides of man’s being alone. It has created the word “loneliness” to express the pain of being alone. And it has created the word “solitude” to express the glory of being alone.

Our language has wisely sensed these two sides of man’s being alone. It has created the word “loneliness” to express the pain of being alone. And it has created the word “solitude” to express the glory of being alone. Although, in daily life, we do not always distinguish these words, we should do so consistently and thus deepen our understanding of our human predicament.

Our mind is a crazy nightclub of cacophonous sound filled with strange images and one-night stands: our mind tells us lonely, loveless tales that leave us frightened but really have no lasting power

Our life is not short; the only thing that is short is our stay.

Out in the cold I stand, Looking on at the world sitting tight, With its people in their nice little worlds, And the friends who don’t even know me. It really makes no difference to their world where I am. If I'm there, it keeps going. If I’m not, it goes on. While I walk around, wandering, wondering, My mind a mass of mixed-up machinery, Clashing with conflicts and unanswered questions. I don’t ask the world if it is real- It sits up there on its foundations, Secure, concrete, hard, stone and real. But maybe I’m not real Or if I am, maybe I shouldn’t be. They answer, ‘Smile, God loves you’, But I can’t smile. I’m numbed by cold inside and out. Even the heat in the square brick buildings Would only warm my body, nothing else. I’m alone in a world full of people, Apart, shut up inside myself, Cold, unfeeling, in a cold unfeeling world.

Outside, under the marquee of the hotel, he stood a moment as he did each night beneath the marquee of the Hotel Hyperion, while he decided what direction to take, what to do. And suddenly, realizing it was not the Hotel Hyperion, that the circumstances were quite different, he felt loneliness spring up like a dark forest all around him. The odd thing was, he felt no impulse to hurry after her, to find her somehow. What would he have to offer her except the history of weakness, loneliness, and inadequacy, the decline and fall of himself? He himself was the core of the loneliness around him, and its core was inadequacy. He was inadequate even in love.

Outwardly I was all confidence and openness; inwardly I was spiteful and lonely and unaware of how to relate to the world. I wanted so much to be good but only knew how to appear that way by being bad.

Over the lives borne from under the shadow of death there seems to fall the shadow of madness.

Ozi made me feel so known. He made love to my insides, filling desperate gaps and calming unbearably sensitive places.

Pain can make us lash out in unexpected ways. Pain can make us hurt those we care about. Pain can build walls between two human souls.

Pale winter sun Is beatin' the ground Why'm I throwin' away The best thing that I've found My young heart's in tatters and I'm sure That it will be a long time healing It's so hard to see what I'm doing this for When loneliness is all that I'm feeling

paradise seemed further away than India, but Hell had become a bit closer

Parecía resignado a la soledad, pero su herida seguía abierta, si bien ahora era una hemorragia interna.

Passion + Vision +Skill + Mentoring = Success.

People are so lonely, they spend their birthdays on the Internet, thanking people for wishing them a happy birthday, people who only know it’s their birthday because Facebook told them.

Penelope? Thank you. For not leaving me alone to deal with this . . . when things got hard. other people would have. You're a true friend.

People bear loneliness every day. They think they won't be able to, that they won't survive, but somehow one second slips into another, becomes an hour, a day, a week, and they are still living. They are still alone, even in the middle of a crowd of people. Even with a partner, a child.

People didn't stick because I was made of fucking Teflon. I'd always told myself that it was better that way, that being alone was easier. That I wasn't a coward for easing my way out of friendships before they could really start.

People in this world, on this planet, all of these people are lonely. To varying degrees, human beings are lonely. Many are not; but too many are. And they are too frequently lonely, too. They fill their minds with things called dreams, plans, conclusions, outlooks, new stuff, self-imagery, self-esteem, illusions, fabrications; all of these things are noisy. They fill their minds up with all the things that are noisy enough to drown out the silence of their loneliness. And they think they're going somewhere because they gauge direction and success based upon the measurements of the distance covered over the platforms of the things they fill their minds with. The noise they fill their minds with. In reality, they're not going anywhere. They are sitting right there alone in that empty room of their minds where their hearts ache (or are numb), yet the walls are covered in noisy things, the corners filled with noisy things! It's a horror story, really. The people of this world are living inside a horror story and it is taking place within their minds. And you wonder why this world is unkind? You wonder why this world is violent, is unfulfilled, is half-baked? THIS is the reason why.

People drown, quietly, before our eyes, all the time.

People, said Sybille, were not meant to be alone. Men and women, women and women, men and men, all should find each other. Solitude was for those broken beyond repair.

People talked about loneliness as if it were something alive and it could get you. But loneliness is something dead, it's deadness. Lonely people are slowly dying people.

People say they are alone. But to whom do they say that? (Les gens disent qu'ils sont seuls. - Mais à qui le disent-ils?)

People who are all alone have every right to be friends with one another. ("The Honeymoon Of Mrs. Smith" - Version 1)

Perhaps she would have liked to confide all these things to someone. But how tell an undefinable uneasiness, variable as the clouds, unstable as the winds? Words failed her—the opportunity, the courage.

People who live in the night are acquainted with all kinds of quiet. There’s quiet enough to hear the distant traffic. Quiet enough to hear your breathing. Quiet enough to hear a lover’s heartbeat. There’s please-god-don’t-let-me-die quiet, and can’t-remember-her-name quiet. Is-he-lying quiet and can’t-make-rent quiet. There’s the quiet that inspires poets, and quiet that torments the lonely.

Perhaps her requirements were too great, Or her indulgence for human weakness too small, For her attempts to form a friendship had always Ended in disappointment.

—Pero, ¿Por qué no acepta que nunca ya volverá a enamorarse? Era cierto; yo no quiero aceptarlo porque me parece que perdería el entusiasmo por todo, que la esperanza vaga de enamorarme me da un poco de confianza en la vida. Ya no tengo otra cosa que esperar.

Perhaps twenty minutes later he realized she had gone to sleep. He quietly removed his now stiff arm, then turned away. It must have woken her a little After a moment he felt her turn as well and lay a hand, instinctively, like a sleeping wife, across his hips; as if, in some dream, he was the one who escaped.

People would rather live in a community with unreasonable claims, than face loneliness with their truth

Perhaps many things inside you have been transformed; perhaps somewhere, someplace deep inside your being, you have undergone important changes while you were sad. The only sadnesses that are dangerous and unhealthy are the ones that we carry around in public in order to drown them out with the noise; like diseases that are treated superficially and foolishly, they just withdraw and after a short interval break out again all the more terribly; and gather inside us and are life, are life that is unlived, rejected, lost, life that we can die of. If only it were possible for us to see farther than our knowledge reaches, and even a little beyond the outworks of our presentiment, perhaps we would bear our sadnesses with greater trust than we have in our joys. For they are the moments when something new has entered us, something unknown; our feelings grow mute in shy embarrassment, everything in us withdraws, a silence arises, and the new experience, which no one knows, stands in the midst of it all and says nothing.

Pilar, if anyone, should have understood how awful it was to be surrounded by people who had their own version of the truth. People who wouldn’t listen to you long enough to know you at a

Poems can get sleepless too and become the loneliest thing in the universe.

¿Por qué no puede uno ser para sí la mejor compañía?.

Ponder now by thyself, how great fruit of wickedness the grain of evil seed had brought forth. And when the ears shall be cut down, which are without number, how great a floor shall they fill?

Poem to Be Read at 3:00 A.M. by Donald Justice Excepting the diner On the outskirts The town of Ladora at 3 A.M. Was dark but For my headlights And up in One second-story room A single light Where someone Was sick or Perhaps reading As I drove past At seventy Not thinking This poem Is for whoever Had the light on

Poor [Jack Kerouac], his day is so sorrowful and worried, his reasons are so ephemeral, it's such a haunted and pitiful thing to have to live.

Poor devil! None of us can have the remotest idea of the agony it is to be despised and rejected of men. A cancer in the soul and then madness. The feeling of there being a curtain, more invisible than gauze, stronger than iron, between one’s self and one’s fellow man. To cry out of the abyss and to know that there will be no answer, that one is buried alive.

Pourtant, il n'y a jamais rien qui change et j'ai parfois l'impression de vivre dans une dimension parallèle où ce qui se passe ici ne traverse jamais l'océan et n'atteint jamais personne. Nous sommes seuls.