Best 2736 quotes in «loneliness quotes» category

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    I am taking this in, slowly, Taking it into my body. This grief. How slow The body is to realize You are never coming back.

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    I ask myself everyday what my life is doing to me and I realize I don't have anybody I can talk to." "You should have" said the Doctor "everybody should.

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    I am vehemently grateful that, by whatever means, I learned to assume that loneliness should be in part pleasure, sensitizing and clarifying, and that it is even a truer bond among people than any kind of proximity.

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    I bask in that sympathy because it's nice to have somebody who cares, even if it's the wrong person for the wrong reasons.

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    I asked myself whether a life devoid of any affection, of any goal, a life one fills with a thousand trifles intended to relieve its monotony, populated with human beings one seeks out in order not to be alone and whom one flees to avoid being bored by them, whether such a life isn't ridiculous, whether anything whatsoever wouldn't be preferable.

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    I and me are always too deeply in conversation: how could I endure it, if there were not a friend? The friend of the hermit is always the third one: the third one is the float which prevents the conversation of the two from sinking into the depth.

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    I beseech thee, O Lord, let me have understanding: For it was not my mind to be curious of the high things, but of such as pass by us daily.

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    I believe that individuals nowadays are probably more aware of their inner loneliness than has ever been true before in history.

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    I blinked. Because even though my dad never, ever complained about being a young dad, I always wondered about his regrets. How his need to keep abandoned, sad things might apply to me, too.

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    I can hear your angered silence, Taste your bitterness. Now I smell your vengeance, Yet see your lonely emptiness. I am your broken heart.

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    I called no one, and no one called me. I was suffocating with loneliness. The pain was almost physical. I felt like tearing myself apart. I wanted to escape from my own skin.

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    I can have patience for anything, but it's waiting for love, that kills me a little each day.

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    I ask for tons of notebooks for my birthday, the ones with college ruled lines, and I carry them with me, pretend they're my friends, and write anything that comes to mind. Something about my stories makes me happy, allows me to drift away a bit.

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    I can go years thinking that it seems impossible that I will ever satisfy that appetite again and then it is easy to satisfy and no one notices or cares, nor does it make me happy, when loneliness surrounds me like water I've already drowned in without dying.

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    I can’t cure anyone. I can’t guarantee they will heal. I can only tell them my story, remind them that they are not alone in their journey and offer a glimmer of hope for healing.

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    I can relate to Marguerite Duras even though I'm not French, nor have I been consumed by love for an East Asian man. I can life inside Alice Munro's skin. But I can't relate to my own mother. My body is full of sentences and moments, my heart resplendent with lovely turns of phrases, but neither is able to be touched by another.

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    I cannot help but wonder how many of us walk through our lives, day after day, feeling slightly broken and alone, surrounded all the time by others who feel exactly the same way.

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    I can push everything into the dark.But it leaves me empty.And the dark always ends up finding me in my sleep

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    I can't deceive myself that out of the bare stark realization that no matter how enthusiastic you are, no matter how sure that character is fate, nothing is real, past or future, when you are alone in your room with the clock ticking loudly into the false cheerful brilliance of the electric light. And if you have no past or future which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide.

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    I can’t help but imagine what that would be like—to be all alone on this island with eternity taunting me with loneliness. To say goodbye to the last human you will ever see—there is no crueler hand of fate.

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    Ici, je me cache quand je veux. Je puis me cacher des jours et des jours, sans qu’on sache si j’existe ou non, et, sans que je le sache bien moi-même. Je m’enferme là-haut. Je lis, je dors, je rêve. Je ne bouge plus.

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    I can’t sleep alone anymore and I get used to company too quickly. You’re always gone too soon.

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    I can't stand it any longer. If only I could will myself dead.

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    i could go if i wanted share the floorboards with someone in a place less haunted but i like it here and i’m happy to stay in this mess on my own in this home i have built for myself in my bones

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    I could no longer deny the truth. I was not invisible to him. I was contemptible... Perhaps I deserved it. Surely I didn't deserve to be loved, for, otherwise, wouldn't I have found someone to love me by now?

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    I could be the lone Eskimo, friend of whales and seals." The Panopticon

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    Ich bin kein Kind, ich bin nicht niedlich; warum soll man so jemanden streicheln?

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    I crave stillness, And yet I fear the moment Stillness turns into boredom, And the moment boredom Turns into loneliness.

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    Ich kannte kaum jemanden in der Stadt. Niemanden, um genau zu sein. Ein paarmal hatte ich mich verliebt in ein Gesicht, aber ich hatte gelernt, solchen Gefühlen auszuweichen, bevor sie zu einer Bedrohung wurden. Ich hatte einige gescheiterte Beziehungen hinter mir und hatte mich, ohne wirklich einen Entschluss zu fassen, für den Moment mit meinem Alleinsein abgefunden.

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    I didn't feel lonely until there was something to yearn for. Loneliness and longing are two sides of the same coin.

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    I didn't have that kind of friendship, the forever kind of friendship that will last your whole life through, no matter what.

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    ...I did what most kids do when their world feels destroyed. I tried to care less about what remained...It was untrue, of course.

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    I do not know that Lady Glencora's heart was made of that stern stuff which refuses to change its impressions; but it was a heart, and it required food. To love and fondle someone, - to be loved and fondled, were absolutely necessary to her happiness. She wanted the little daily assurance of her supremacy in the man's feelings, the constant touch of love, half accidental half contrived, the passing glance of the eye telling perhaps of some little joke understood only between them two rather than of love, the softness of an occasional kiss given here and there when chance might bring them together, some half-pretended interest in her little doings, a nod, a wink, a shake of the head, or even a pout.

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    I could say it was the nights when I was lonely and you were the only one who'd talk. I could tell you that I like your sensitivity, when you know it's the way that you walk.

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    I cry everyday but for a limited time

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    I’d felt this before, when my granddad was in the hospital before he died. We all camped out in the waiting room, eating our meals together, most of us sleeping in the chairs every night. Family from far-flung places would arrive at odd hours and we’d all stand and stretch, hug, get reacquainted, and pass the babies around. A faint, pale stream of beauty and joy flowed through the heavy sludge of fear and grief. It was kind of like those puddles of oil you see in parking lots that look ugly until the sun hits them and you see rainbows pulling together in the middle of the mess. And wasn’t that just how life usually felt—a confusing swirl of ugly and rainbow?

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    I didn’t have the vaguest idea of what to do – I couldn’t keep staring at the wall forever, I told myself. But even that admonition didn’t work. A faculty advisor reviewing a graduation thesis would have had the perfect comment: you write well, you argue clearly, but you don’t have anything to say.

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    ...I did what most kids do when their world feels destroyed. I tried to care less about what remained...This was untrue, of course.

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    I didn't let her go. She went. It's not my fault. She did it. She could undo it. This is feeling so fucking famliar. Why do we even bother? Why do we make ourselves so open to such easy damage? Is it all loneliness? Is it all fear? Of is it just to experience those narcotic moments of belonging with someone else?

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    I didn't like anything. Maybe I was afraid. That was it - I was afraid. I wanted to sit alone in a room with the shades down. I feasted upon that. I was a crank. I was a lunatic.

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    I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free - The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks for nothing. ~ Tulips (1961)

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    I don’t know… I think I’d like to say only that they should learn to be alone and try to spend as much time as possible by themselves. I think one of the faults of young people today is that they try to come together around events that are noisy, almost aggressive at times. This desire to be together in order to not feel alone is an unfortunate symptom, in my opinion. Every person needs to learn from childhood how to spend time with oneself. That doesn’t mean he should be lonely, but that he shouldn’t grow bored with himself because people who grow bored in their own company seem to me in danger, from a self-esteem point of view.

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    I don't know," she said. "We used to squabble a lot when we were going together and then engaged and everything, but I thought everything would be so different as soon as you were married. And now I feel so sort of strange and everything. I feel so sort of alone.

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    I don't know. I got nothing. No house, no people, no place. Maybe that's troubles. Don't I say?

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    I don't have friends. Before I can't without friends.

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    I don't know what I'm doing in Santa Teresa," Amalfitano said to himself after he'd been living in the city for a week. "Don't you? Don't you really?" he asked himself. "Really I don't," he said to himself. And that was as eloquent as he could be.

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    I don’t think that loneliness is necessarily a bad or unconstructive condition. My own skill at jamming time may actually be dependent on some fluid mixture of emotions, among them curiosity, sexual desire, and love, all suspended in a solvent medium of loneliness. I like the heroes or heroines of books I read to be living alone, and feeling lonely, because reading is itself a state of artificially enhanced loneliness. Loneliness makes you consider other people’s lives, makes you more polite to those you deal with in passing, dampens irony and cynicism. The interior of the Fold is, of course, the place of ultimate loneliness, and I like it there. But there are times when the wish for others’ voices, for friendliness returned, reaches unpleasant levels, and becomes a kind of immobilizing pain. That was how it felt as I finished packing up the box of sex machines.

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    I don't reckon misery loves any damn thing at all.

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    I don't mean to deny a feeling of solitude. It is there, reinforced by the fact that radio contact with the Earth abruptly cuts off at the instant I disappear behind the moon, I am alone now, truly alone, and absolutely isolated from any known life. I am it. If a count were taken, the score would be three billion plus two over on the other side of the moon, and one plus God knows what on this side.

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    I don't know what the hell I'm workin' for. Sometimes I sit in my apartment–all alone. And I think of the rent I'm paying. And it's crazy. But then, it's what I always wanted. My own apartment, a car, and plenty of women. And still, goddammit, I'm lonely.