loneliness

But he was absolutely alone. No one ever wrote to him. Visited him. Totally alone. And I believe the happiest man I have ever met.

And he looked at me then, and with real kindness on his face, and I see now that he recognized what I did not: that in spite of my plenitude, I was lonely. Lonely was the first flavor I had tasted in my life, and it was always there, hidden inside the crevices of my mouth, reminding me.

An overcrowded world is the ideal place in which to be lonely.

At that time I was only twenty-four years old. My life then was already gloomy, disorderly, and solitary to the point of savagery.

Though he was not as dastardly as Esmé or Count Olaf or the hook-handed man, Jerome was still an ersatz guardian, because a real guardian is supposed to provide a home, with a place to sleep and something to wear, and all Jerome had given them in the end was "Good luck." Jerome reached the end of the block and turned left, and the Baudelaires were once again alone in the world.

...very lonely and, often, very unhappy, with the poignant misery that comes to lonely people who long to be social and cannot, somehow, step naturally and unselfconsciously into some friendly group

Loneliness isn't a disease, it is only a moment to learn something better

some people are lonely for all the right reasons.

Maybe my dissertation really had been as brilliant as he claimed, the truth was I remember almost nothing about it; the intellectual leaps I made when I was young were a distant memory to me, and now I was surrounded by a kind of aura, when really my only goal in life was to do a little reading and get in bed at four in the afternoon with a carton of cigarettes and a bottle; and yet, at the same time, I had to admit, I was going to die if I kept that up _ I was going to die fast, unhappy and alone. And did I really want to die fast, unhappy and alone? In the end, only kind of.

And then, for an hour, he became aware of the strange life he was leading, of him doing lots of things which were only a game, of, though being happy and feeling joy at times, real life still passing him by and not touching him. As a ball-player plays with his balls, he played with his business-deals, with the people around him, watched them, found amusement in them; with his heart, with the source of his being, he was not with them. The source ran somewhere, far away from him, ran and ran invisibly, had nothing to do with his life any more. And at several times he suddenly became scared on account of such thoughts and wished that he would also be gifted with the ability to participate in all of this childlike-naive occupations of the daytime with passion and with his heart, really to live, really to act, really to enjoy and to live instead of just standing by as a spectator.

A box sits empty,wanting to hold and protect.Hollow tears it cries.

The walls of hell are coated with arrogance, and the floor is covered with pride.

My loneliness was an important part of my own little universe, not some pathological disease that needs to be gotten [sic] rid of.

There are kinds of solitude that provide a respite from loneliness, a holiday if not a cure.

I have a hundred million fans, Angela, but I have very few friends.

A terrible feeling of loneliness besieged her, so strong it was almost like physical pain...

Seasons happened and things got colder and harder and suddenly I found myself smoking circles in the airby myself in the snowand I was not okay.

I look and I look...I must have come to the wrong planet.It's so strange here.