I have always photographed loneliness because that is my life.
Most of the writers I know are weird hybrids. There's a strong streak of egomania coupled with extreme shyness. Writing's kind of like exhibitionism in private. And there's also a strange loneliness, and a desire to have some kind of conversation with people, but not a real great ability to do it in person.
Christ's boundless grace confronts our deep necessities. Christ's promised presence confronts our sad and gloomy loneliness. Jesus thus filled with grace so overflowing, with love so tender, with sympathy so exquisite, with power so illimitable, with resources so boundless, with a nature so changeless, stands before us and says to each trembling heart, 'Fear not!'
Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.
What is the emotion of an empty inbox? An unliked Post? An ignored dating app message? I think there's a great loneliness that much of our society is running from, and we search for relief in our phones and computers, our online communities, our social networks of friends.
The person who tries to live alone will not succeed as a human being. His heart withers if it does not answer another heart. His mind shrinks away if he hears only the echoes of his own thoughts and finds no other inspiration.
It seems to be that loneliness is a small price to pay for peace and quiet.
My plight has given me a strange kind of wealth, the most important kind. I value each moment that is not spent in pain, desperation, hunger, thirst, or loneliness.
of all the deprivations which afflict humankind, none is more dreadful than loneliness. A corrosive, it eats the heart out. People were meant to live by twos, with someone close with whom to share good and bad, to hear breathing in the dark room at night. Being alone is the one unnatural act.
It's (the lack of communication between the people in his paintings, ed. ) probably a reflection of my own, if I may say, loneliness. I don't know. It could be the whole human condition.
A cruel joke has been played on us. We are fated always to remember what we learned but never to recall the experiences that taught us. Who can remember being born? Yet, it is possible to speculate that anxiety has its roots in this experience, that dread of abandonment, fears of separation, intolerable loneliness go back to this moment. Who can remember being cared for as an infant?. . . Who can remember being toilet-trained?. . . Who can remember the attachment which developed to the parent of the opposite sex?. . . We cannot remember but what we have forgotten lives on dynamically.
In loneliness, the lonely one eats himself; in a crowd, the many eat him. Now choose.
Is there anything in the world better than words on the page? Magic signs, the voices of the dead, building blocks to make wonderful worlds better than this one, comforters, companions in loneliness. Keepers of secrets, speakers of the truth. . . all those glorious words.
You think that I am impoverishing myself withdrawing from men, but in my solitude I have woven for myself a silken web or chrysalis, and, nymph-like, shall ere long burst forth a more perfect creature, fitted for a higher society.
We walk alone through this world, but if we're lucky, we have a moment of belonging to something, to someone, that sustains us through a lifetime of loneliness.
And not out of fear or loneliness, but only to find myself again. . . for we have come too far my Life, to turn back now.
There is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream, a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought -a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!
Loneliness is never more cruel than when it is felt in close propinquity with someone who has ceased to communicate.
The Seasons Difference is a suave and urbane comedy about several immense abstractions - faith, innocence, loneliness, and love.
Plato calls complacency the companion of loneliness.