Best 399 quotes in «isolation quotes» category

Having arrived at this point, he had found no direction in which to go save that of further withdrawal into a subjectivity which refused existence to any reality or law but its own. During these postwar years he had lived in solitude and carefully planned ignorance of what was happening in the world. Nothing had importance save the exquisitely isolated cosmos of his own consciousness. Then little by little he had had the impression that the light of meaning, the meaning of everything was dying. Like a flame under a glass it had dwindled, flickered and gone out, and all existence, including his own hermetic structure from which he had observed existence, had become absurd and unreal.

Haymitch isn't thinking of arenas, but something else. "Johanna's back in the hospital." I assumed Johanna was fine, had passed her exam, but simply wasn't assigned to a sharp shooters' unit. She's wicked with a throwing axe but about average with a gun. "Is she hurt? What happened?" "It was while she was on the Block. They try to ferret out a soldier's potential weakness. So they flooded the street, " says Haymitch. This doesn't help. Johanna can swim. At least, I seem to remember her swimming around some in the Quarter Quell. Not like Finnick, of course, but none of us are like Finnick. "So?" "That's how they tortured her in the Capitol. Soaked her then used electric shocks," says Haymitch. "In the Block, she had some kind of flashback. Panicked, didn't know where she was. She's back under sedation." Finnick and I just stand there as if we've lost the ability to respond. I think of the way Johanna never showers. How she forced herself into the rain like it was acid that day. I had attributed her misery to morphling withdrawal. "You two should go see her. You're as close to friends as she's got," says Haymitch. That makes the whole thing worse. I don't really know what's between Johanna and Finnick, but I hardly know her. No family. No friends.Not so much as a token from District 7 to set beside her regulation clothes in her anonymous drawer. Nothing.

He could have been invisible and it wouldn’t have made a difference to them. He didn’t care, so long as he felt at ease, which was his original intention. He wasn’t there to make friends, nor did he want to.

He had been for many years, a quiet silent man, associating but little with other men, and used to companionship with his own thoughts. He had never known before the strength of the want in his heart for the frequent recognition of a nod, a look, a word; or the immense amount of relief that had been poured into it by drops through such small means.

He had so much damn respect he wanted to scream.

He laid there realizing how thoroughly he'd removed himself from the world or obligations, how stupidly independent he'd become: he needed no one, knew no one, was not a part of anyone's life. He'd so thoroughly removed himself from the world of dependencies and obligations, he wasn't sure he still existed.

Hello International Space Station, goodbye civilization.

He locked himself up in his sanctuary of art and carried the keys with him at all times. He maintained the social façade for financial security. The more tragedies were shackled to his name, the more demand there was for his public persona to clean up after the family name and showcase his art to overshadow his domestic disasters. His prominent reputation in the limelight of the town kept buzzing while the man behind the infamy withered in privacy.

He liked the electric darkness and the hot dirty air and the blasts of noise and traffic and the manic barking sirens and the crush of people. It helped a lonely man feel connected and isolated both at the same time.

He lived a quiet existence where the future was easy to predict and the past was a cancer in remission. It was meaningful, of course. But it was lonely.

He who has lived and thought can't help despising people in his soul; him who has felt disturbs the ghost of irrecoverable days; for him there are no more enchantments; him does the snake of memories, him does repentance bite.

He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors.

How easily such a thing can become a mania, how the most normal and sensible of women once this passion to be thin is upon them, can lose completely their sense of balance and proportion and spend years dealing with this madness.

He can have friends. It's parents he can't have.

He was a stranger here. The people who might remember him would certainly not welcome him. His old gang had cast him out, along with all of the former friends and parents. The suburban landscape of hypocrisy, so hated in his youth, beheld again and with it, old feelings that motivated him through life more than he would ever admit. Every turning point in life, already decided by all the events here

He welcomed isolation with all his heart. It never occurred to him that the reserve he met in Bedap and Tirin might be a response; that his gentle but already formidable hermetic character might form its own ambiance, which only great strength, or great devotion, could withstand. All he noticed, really, was that he had plenty of time to work at last.

How young I seem; I am exceptional; I think of all I have. But really no one is exceptional, No one has anything, I’m anybody, I stand beside my grave Confused with my life, that is commonplace and solitary.

How often did he feel it now, this gorgeous, furtive seclusion? In the bath sometimes, maybe. Though Jean failed to understand his need for periodic isolation and regularly dragged him back to earth mid-soak by hammering on the locked door in search of bleach or dental floss.

How catastrophic is it when the church herself becomes secularized and expressive individualism sits in the driver’s seat in the church’s life and mission. When the church has lost connection with Christ her living head, she loses her soul.

I am going to the USA to catch sight of a wild porcupine and to give some lectures.

I am isolated. I sit in a glass ball, I see people through a glass wall. I scream, but they do not hear me. - Ellen West

I am not an outsider. I am an insider who discovered that everyone else had gone out.

I am trying to participate

I barricaded myself and stared out the window, without seeing anything but my own unhappiness.

I am a stranger in this world, and there is a severe solitude and painful lonesomeness in my exile.

I close my eyes and try and shut him out. My fingers don’t want to stay in time. They want to race ahead in fury, plunging into the dense fog of black notes, pulling the music out by its roots, hurling it up out of the piano and into the air.

Idleness & isolation both starts with “I.” What can I do, should I do nothing by waiting for better things to arrive hence surrendering to the moment of in-action or should I act & make this moment best of all moments? Who am I? Someone good with making the best use of given opportunities or someone who creates opportunities! Workstations are lonely, customer queries are declining, we enter the phase of isolation & idleness, deciding the next move becomes impossible. We begin the day looking for work, which is non-existent so we decide to let ourselves flow with the tide of idleness. We do nothing which seems difficult in the beginning but gradually it becomes a part of routine. We get surrounded by nothingness; nothing in-hand & nothing in sight. We stop thinking, we stop moving, like our physical fitness even our mental fitness start to deteriorate by lack of thinking. Nothing to think is a situation when we believe what others say, we become slaves of their thoughts, we stop being ourselves we choose to be like them, because it offers us a chance to avoid being singled out, we follow where others lead us, we knowingly become a sheep and blindly start following the herd. Idleness & isolation always gives us a choice to get-up and change the next moment, to come out of slumber, to try things not tried before, because we perform the best when we have nothing to lose, it’s that moment when we decide to give-up on being a follower & become the leader. Slowly results start coming, people start looking at us, what have we done & how have we done it. That is the moment when we transform the thought process of the teams, departments & organizations. That is when the “I” transforms itself into “WE” and impossible transform into the possible.

I don't want to hide. I don't want to be alone. I don't want to wander off into the desert in shame and die and become vulture food. Or end up keeling over just because I'm too self-conscious to leave the house. Cause of Death: Unnecessary Loneliness.

I fall in love with Paraíso. It’s like a giant playground where I’m never scolded for running around recklessly, where I’m almost overwhelmed with the amount of attention and love I receive from Mami’s family. In New York, I’m invisible.

I feel the swelling energy, the inexplicable, restless hunger, rising in my own innocent life. I don't care at all about the music or the drinking or the gathering together of teenagers for fun and the thrill of belonging. But my father is gone. He has a new life, a new wife and daughter, and never calls or visits. I miss him badly. My mother is inaccessible. My older brother and sister have moved on to their own lives, leaving me alone at home and on the beach while my mother works and plays with Peter.

I can't even guess myself what it must be to live the life of a human being.

If I'm all alone, then the standard for sanity is up to me entirely.

If isolation is the furnace of transformation, I could be ashes by now.

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.

If we don’t acknowledge the truth in our relationships, they simply become a state of isolation with somebody (some body) still around.

If you liked being alone all the time, that would be one thing. But I don't actually think you do. I think you're just letting yourself be scared.

I genuinely don’t know how the dating scene works now. People can manipulate their image totally with filters on dating sites, so you don’t know what they really look like. If you try to chat someone up, it’s seen as harassment. Society is fragmenting more and more at an alarming rate.

I guess what I'm saying is that this all feels very familiar. But it's not mine to be familiar about.

I had the sense that these locked rooms were more than just a place to hold us. I thought they must be something more important, locking up our very lives and souls, isolating us, stripping even the light from us. This was a prison of the soul. This room had taught me a true loneliness of a kind I had never seen or experienced before, and the meaninglessness of a life without a future.

I know you don't think that any tongue I speak is mine; it must be rented. I am always denial, or pretense. A child born mid-flight has no nation. I can pull on either culture, but they always melt like a dream, trickle away, water on the oiled pelt of foreign.

I have been sadder than any man could be: for nothing in the world was made for me.

I look out the backseat window of the car filled with all of my best friends and rest my eyes on the moon, and I wonder: how can it be that the moon is surrounded by all of the stars in the nighttime sky, and yet it still looks so isolated from the rest of the universe around it? - lonely ≠ alone

I may have smiled to myself as I watched the familiar pattern of the town pass, the bus cruising through shade to sunshine. I'd grown up in this place, had the knowledge of it so deep in me that I didn't even know most street names, navigating instead by landmarks, visual or memorial. The corner where my mother had twisted her ankle in a mauve pantsuit. The copse of trees that always looked vaguely attended by evil. The drugstore with its torn awning. Through the window of that unfamiliar bus, the burr of old carpet under my legs, my hometown seemed scrubbed clean of my presence. It was easy to leave it behind.

In a world as noisy as ours, only those who can isolate themselves will be able to think better and meditate better and hence have a higher chance of receiving innovative ideas and concepts.

Incapable of communicating himself to others, incapable of breaking out of his isolation, doomed to remain the mere actor of his life, the deputy of his own ego—all that any human being can know of another is a mere symbol, a symbol of an ego that remains beyond our grasp, possessing no more value than that of a symbol; and all that can be told is the symbol of a symbol, a symbol at a second, third, nth remove, asking for representation in the true double sense of the word.

In constant physical or emotional isolation nothing seems real, not even ourselves. It’s only in the reflective eyes of others that assures us we exist at all.

I have never been able to meet anyone without an accompaniment of painful smiles, the buffoonery of defeat.

I look around at everybody laughing and joking together and struggle to understand my life has become a living hell that nobody present could even begin to imagine

I'm in hell. I'm separate from everyone and everything. I'm John Travolta in The Boy in the Plastic Bubble.

I’m not sure how old I was when I first tried looking in the mirror and telling myself, with a shiver of pride and a warning prickle of something like fear, ‘I am the most powerful person in the world.’ In a way, it was true. My hands and mind could do things no one else’s could, but I was too young then to understand that some power—the kind that really matters—comes from other people. And what good is being faster, or stronger, or smarter than everyone else when it leaves you all alone?