My loneliness. . . still comes over me sometimes. . . It's a liminal, lost sensation of having wandered wide, endless boulevards, among rows of orange trees, winter butterflies, seasons reversed and out of order, dogs barking from behind fences meant to keep out intruders. It's not the place that impoverishes me but I who bring my own sense of poverty, of loss, to the place. It's a sense of near nothingness, as though I were not so much a blank slate as an erased chalkboard, still bearing illegible smudges of smoothed-over writing.
Well, being the youngest child and frail, I was left alone a great deal of the time.
Solitude: a sweet absence of looks.
In his lonely solitude, the solitary man feeds upon himself; in the thronging multitude, the many feed upon him. Now choose.
Love is an actual need, an urgent requirement of the heart, he read aloud from an old essay on marriage that he found in his files. Every properly constituted human being who entertains an appreciation of loneliness. . . and looks forward to happiness and content feels the necessity of loving. Without it, life is unfinished.
Man is like an island set in isolation in a fathomless sea enveloped by darkness, saying that the loneliness his self knows is so utterly absolute because even he knows not his self completely.
Remember: the time you feel lonely is the time you most need to be by yourself. Life's cruelest irony.
I think the most common cause of insomnia is simple; its loneliness.
My inspiration are the woman, friendship, and loneliness.
People don't acknowledge loneliness in themselves, and don't appreciate its benefits, the reflection and attentiveness that come with it, the deepened acquaintance with oneself.
The capacity for not feeling lonely can carry a very real price, that of feeling nothing at all.
Loneliness comes with life.
There's a difference between solitude and loneliness. I can understand the concept of being a monk for a while.
I realize that I live on the bubble of insanity. I feel the weight of human suffering, loneliness and despair on me all the time. It's not getting easier; if anything, it's always right on the edge of my skin.
Yea, I have looked, and seen November there; The changeless seal of change it seemed to be, Fair death of things that, living once, were fair; Bright sign of loneliness too great for me, Strange image of the dread eternity, In whose void patience how can these have part, These outstretched feverish hands, this restless heart?
Every time I look at you I get a fierce desire to be lonesome.
Not only is there no question of solitude, but in the long run we may not choose our company.
A writer needs loneliness, and he gets his share of it. He needs love, and he gets shared and also unshared love. He needs friendship. In fact, he needs the universe. To be a writer is, in a sense, to be a day-dreamer - to be living a kind of double life.
There have been times in my life when I have felt I was lonely, but I don't think you want to live your life in order to mitigate against loneliness.
Divinity must live within herself: Passions of rain, or moods in the falling snow; Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued Elations when the forest blooms; gusty Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights; All pleasures and all pains, remembering The boughs of summer and the winter branch. These are the measures destined for her soul.