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Solitude Quotes

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Solitude Quotes

“He imagines snapping his fingers, making all the people in the diner stand, at once, and become their better selves. The woman with the cragged oak-bark face throws off her hood and shakes her hair and her age drops off of her like bandages. The man with a monk's tonsure, muttering to himself, leaps onto a table and strikes music from the air. Out of the bowels of the kitchen the weary cooks, small brown people, cartwheel and break-dance, spinning like upended beetles on the ground and their faces crack into glee and they are suddenly lovely to look at, and the dozen customers start up all at once into loud song, voices broken and beautiful. The song rises and infiltrates the city and wakes the inhabitants, one by one, from their own dark dreams, and all across the island, people sit up in bed and listen to it lap around them, an ocean of kindness, filling them, making them forget all the evil leaching out of the world for a very long moment, making them forget everything but the song.”

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Book:Arcadia
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“Wherever you go in the next catastrophé Be it sickroom, or prison, or cemet’ry Do not fear that your stay will be solit’ry Countless souls share your fate, you’ll have company!”

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Book:The Basement Trains: A 21st Century Poem
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“The more occupied we are in the things of God, the more likely we priests are to forget what God is all about—and the more complacent we’re likely to become. That’s the story of Jesus. Who do you think got rid of Jesus? The priests—who else? The religious people. That’s the terror of the Gospel, see?”

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Book:Rediscovering Life: Awaken to Reality
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“For now she need not think of anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others... and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures.”

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Book:To the Lighthouse
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“I love the stillness of the wood; I love the music of the rill: I love the couch in pensive mood Upon some silent hill. Scarce heard, beneath yon arching trees, The silver-crested ripples pass; and, like a mimic brook, the breeze Whispers among the grass. Here from the world I win release, Nor scorn of men, nor footstep rude, Break into mar the holy peace Of this great solitude. Here may the silent tears I weep Lull the vested spirit into rest, As infants sob themselves to sleep Upon a mothers breast. But when the bitter hour is gone, And the keen throbbing pangs are still, Oh, sweetest then to couch alone Upon some silent hill! To live in joys that once have been, To put the cold world out of sight, And deck life's drear and barren scene With hues of rainbow-light. For what to man the gift of breath, If sorrow be his lot below; If all the day that ends in death Be dark with clouds of woe? Shall the poor transport of an hour Repay long years of sore distress— The fragrance of a lonely flower Make glad the wilderness? Ye golden house of life's young spring, Of innocence, of love and truth! Bright, beyond all imagining, Thou fairy-dream of youth! I'd give all wealth that years have piled, The slow result of Life's decay, To be once more a little child For one bright summer's day.”

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Author:Lewis Carroll
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“I see myself abandoned, solitary, thrown into a cell without dimensions, where light and shadows are silent phantoms. Within my inner self I find the silence I am seeking. But it leaves me so bereft of any memory of any human being and of me myself, that I transform this impression into the certainty of physical solitude. Were I to cry out — I can no longer see things clearly — my voice would receive the same indifferent echo from the walls of the earth.”

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Book:Near to the Wild Heart
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“Quartering the topmost branches of one of the tall trees, an invisible bird was striving to make the day seem shorter, exploring with a long-drawn note the solitude that pressed it on every side, but it received at once so unanimous an answer, so powerful a repercussion of silence and of immobility, that one felt it had arrested for all eternity the moment which it had been trying to make pass more quickly.”

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Book:Swann’s Way
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“He looked at the houses he had been passing these weeks and though he had never studied them carefully they had become familiar through the process of seeing them so often, and he was now impressed with the change in their appearance as he looked at them through the gray of the air and whiteness of the snow, each house, shrub, tree, bush and mailbox trimmed with snow and blending into the air as if they were just a picture projected upon the still, pearly grayness, just an impression created by the silent snow, a picture on the edge and verge of disappearing and leaving only the air and snow through which he now lightly walked. It did not seem possible, but the air was even softer and quieter. He continued walking alongside his prints feeling he could walk forever, that as long as the silent snow continued falling he could continue walking, and as he did he would leave behind all worries and cares, all horrors of the past and future. There would be nothing to bother him or torture his mind and fill his body with tremors of fear, the dark night of the soul over. There would only be himself and the soft, silent snow; and each flake, in its own life, its own separate and distinct entity, would bring with it its own joy, and he would easily partake of that joy as he continued walking, the gentle, silent snow falling ever so quietly, ever so joyously ... yes, and ever so love-ing-ly ... loveing-ly....”

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Book:Song of the Silent Snow
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“The Bounded Boundless In the haven of solitude, the heart is on fire, For beneath the layers, there begins the explosion, deep in the soul, the heavenly hush, the holy communion. The world may wonder, 'Is this loneliness?' No, no! Have you heard of aloneness? The luminous solitude where silence strikes a fire; The contemplative cave, where a person is burned In the flames of longing, only to be a seeker and sage. As a moth to a flame, there the soul dives, In the sea of solitude, to hunt the pearls that lie deep within. The moment arrives when the vision travels inward, Leaving the world outside, you find a new world inside. Is this the world of luminous stillness, the enlightening solitude, the heart of heaven? In the heart of silence, you go deep to find, in the world outside, you were nobody, but, in the world inside, you are somebody! Somebody with identity, and there begins the divine alchemy. You, the moth, find your wings in the longing for flames, burning in the fire, you find your flight. You, the seeker, soar above the finite to infinity, The bliss in burning. 'I Sense My Thirst'....Excerpt Jayita Bhattacharjee”

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Author:Jayita Bhattacharjee
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“Quiet of The Wild Sea The explosion of longing, the calm in the wild seas, For the soul is a sailor, a ship in the stormy sea, one half of whose desires to rest, The other half yearns to voyage in the sea. O soul, 'why is longing a mix of danger and safety?' 'I see peace in the wild sea, a shelter in the storm.' So, I look out at the wild sea, For in the storm, I share with God, the wild days of life. There, I sense, my passionate heart. This heart, a ship moored, longs to fly on wild wings, For flying, I will find my wings of light. A ship, safely harbored, would remain futile, In the voyage of life. This heart would taste no wine of ecstasy. O heart, break, break, break every chain, that anchors me to the harbor. O heart, break, break, break every fetter, set me out in the wild sea. This safety is not my nest, my wild desire is. Sail, sail, sail through the turbulent sea, For there, I will sense my beloved, eternal. There, I will sense my eternal lover. In the storm is the bliss, in the wild, the peace. O, heart, this torment goes in the quiet space, Shall I rest or shall I sail? For such pleasure, there is, in this pain. such a mix it is of delight and fear. In the wild tides comes the peace, For this is a voyage with my beloved, The calm in a world of chaos. Ah! Is this a cry of pleasure or pain? Is this a storm and a shelter, at the same time? The whipping winds, the wild seas, yet the waves of passion call me wild. O, soul, is this a voyage in the sea, or a voyage of homecoming? O, soul, speak to me, speak to me now, in this stormy a moment, will I stay anchored, or will I set sail, faraway into the wild? 'I Sense My Thirst'...Excerpt Jayita Bhattacharjee”

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Author:Jayita Bhattacharjee
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“The sound of silence was beginning to get louder, and familiar. And I was deeply in love with it. Not only does it not involve religious practices, it makes you shed all religious affiliations for ten days. What you are left with is your bare breath. That becomes the only thing you focus on – your personal rosary. There are no pictures of gurus, or even of the Buddha himself. There are no personalised gods or its dubious derivates – dogmas, or godmen – to prostrate before. No hugs, kisses, threads, amulets, satins or holy ash. No holy ‘trap’ of devices designed for an instant osmosis of blessings. No grand trickery that makes life here a hell in promise of a heaven there. It shows us the same arduous path that some of the enlightened men have walked. Men who can only show the path and are not the destination; where they communed with their truth, or, for lack of a better word, their God, in silence. The choice is left to us, to walk, stroll, stray, or squat on that path. [Many men; Ab to Za, all those alphabets and all the other men in between… Same grand truth, revealed in parts… Same path, seemingly different… Same destination…. No single path.] But Vipassana does not offer us the easier path of pleading, coaxing, extorting or seducing such men for easy blessings. It nudges you to start walking. To be your own blessing. To create your own miracles.”

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Book:I Killed the Golden Goose : A COLLECTION OF THOUGHTS, THOUGHTLESSNESS, SILENCES, POEMS & SOME ‘SHOT’ STORIES
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