I was just so lonely all the time. I missed, like, all my friends at school and stuff. But I mean, in the end, it worked out.
She was too proud of her isolation, her solitary, joyless rectitude.
I don’t enjoy my own company. I always feel there’s somebody missing.
But, from beyond, the North—ice and unbreathed air, lights whose reflections since childhood had brightened and chilled her sky, touching to life at all points a sense of unshared beauty—reclaimed her for its clear solitude.
But you can’t hide from fear. There’s no escape from the fear of being alone. It lives on inside us from the moment we are born.
There would never be a way for me to live comfortably with people. Maybe I’d become a monk. I’d pretend to believe in God and live in a cubicle, play an organ and stay drunk on wine.
For who is lonelier than the cockroach without his tribe?
She has few pleasures to think of as she sits here alone by the fire.
That we were wonderful traveling companions but in the end no more than lonely lumps of metal on their own separate orbits.
No life is a waste. The only time we waste is the time we spend thinking we are alone.
I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for my friend in those hours of intense mental concentration during which he weighed every particle of evidence, constructed alternative theories, balanced one against the other, and made up his mind as to which points were essential and which immaterial.